Antifaseis
by Vikareus
Summary: When monsters and other forms of indescribable, eldritch horrors threatens the downfall of the Gods and the Praying Races, it's up to the heroic adventurers to vanquish them and return peace to the world. At least that's how the world has always been. It would be supremely boring to always stick to the same script, don't you think? (Formerly: An Contradictias)
1. A Simple Job

Nighttime.

The frontier town's streets were empty and silent as the grave, with the exception of the howling wind and the footsteps, yawns and chatters of guards doing nightly patrols. Despite the warmth of the lantern in their hand and the thick, insulated clothing they wear, the chilly air limited their effectiveness, biting at exposed skin not unlike the mandibles of a thousand tiny insects. Unfortunately, livelihood and safety were far more important matters than drinks and good company.

From the shadows of an alley, an individual, clad in a hooded cloak, poked their head out to survey the streets. They - or rather, he, judging from the wiry masculine appearance - was no taller than a child, reaching only the waist of a full-grown man. His ears, the right pierced with a few metal adornments, are far too sharp and elongated to have belonged to a rhea. In conjunction with a scarf covering the lower part of his face and the surrounding darkness, it's difficult to tell what species he is.

However, the perpetually gleaming, uncannily golden human-like eyes beneath the hood suggested nothing of the ordinary.

From habit formed out of caution, the Rogue looked left and right, even checking his flank and glancing upward for any potential threats. Aside from a few guards doing their rounds, he sighed quietly with relief, taking comfort in the safety of shadows. But he had no intention of staying still forever.

There was a job need to be done, and time was nobody's ally.

He retreated into the alley, running to where he needed to be with balanced haste and caution. The further he went, the less patrol he'd encountered; it didn't mean he was in the clear however.

Rogue soon skidded to a stop on his right heel at a large, luxurious house before him. Like most buildings in town, it was made from sun-dried bricks, its roof tiled, and there were windows with the addition of a sturdy steel fence with spikes on top surrounding it. Standing at the main entrance were a few men immersed in a conversation. They were dressed in typical town guard's garbs, yet they showed little to no interest in making sure the surrounding streets were clear of criminals.

Scaling the fence was off the table, while entering through the main entrance, although doable, worth too much trouble. It was more akin to an invitation for the guards to catch him rather than an infiltration attempt. There should be another way in that would warrant less attention.

He sneaked off to the side of the small mansion away from the guards' collective line of sight, hoping to find a discrete point of entry. Unlike the front, a well-aged brick wall was in place of the spiked fence, most likely placed there to provide privacy. Had the Rogue forgotten to pack additional gears before setting out, it would've been insurmountable. Smirking with pride at his sense of readiness, he reached into his thief's pack and pulled out a coil of rope with a four-pronged metal hook attached to one head. With a few spins, Rogue threw the hooked-end into the air where it would get stuck at the top. He quickly began his ascent and dropped down on the other side to retrieve his tool and stash it away for future uses.

The backyard wasn't devoid of dangers, but it was sparse in comparison to the front gate. Peeking from the hedge he was hidden behind, he could see a man with scruffy hair and beard, clad in commoner's clothes and brandishing a mean-looking wooden club, turning his head side to side as if searching for something. It didn't take much for Rogue to figure out that he has noticed his entry. To prevent potential troubles, his hand pulled free a throwing knife from a pouch on his belt, and, in a flash, it became lodged in the other man's throat in one dexterous throw. He collapsed shortly after a brief stumble, mouth agape, eyes wide with fear. His companion, who came to check up on him, was also disposed off with a dagger quickly dragged across his neck. Once the bodies were hidden, Rogue opened a pair of trapdoors and proceeded to venture down into the cellar.

As Rogue took cautious, muffled steps, his long ears twitched in response to grunts which grew in volume the further he went. They appear to be of both exertion, although one was more painful than the other. Upon peering through one of the grates, he could see that his guess was correct: A young, handsome human man, badly bruised from head to toe, bound to a simple wooden chair via rope. Surrounding him were three men, who seemed to have taken turns in roughing him up.

"Out with it already." one of them impatiently demanded. "Who do you really work for?"

Snickering with smugness equal part fear, the captive replied. "Gods, you guys are dense. How many times do I have to tell you to go ask your mother?"

Unable to restrain his anger from such insulting response, one half-elf man roared and struck him across the face with a winded right hook. As he recovered from his blow, the tied man spat a mixed wad of saliva and blood at his aggressor in return, causing him to recoil with disgust. Similarly enraged, one of the captors promptly withdrew a rusty, jagged knife and held it along his throat.

"Look, here's the deal." he stated, each word emphasized. "You either be a good boy and stop bullshitting us or we'll make an example out of you. I'm pretty sure you'll wish you have been honest."

"Oh yeah? How come I haven't seen some of your artworks?"

A leaden sigh of great frustration slipped from the interrogator's lips, but before he could do anything, a companion of his howled a painful cry as he clutched his leg. Distracted by a laceration to the back of his knee, he was helpless to prevent a slit throat and the death of the half-elf who, in this unprecedented interruption, reacted too late at a knife thrown at his forehead.

To the now-visible Rogue, it didn't come off as a surprise when the large man desired to avenge his friends. Tightening his grip on the knife, he began swinging at the intruder with wild desperation, indifferent to his developing fatigue. Rogue ducked and weaved as he retreated, making sure he only succeeds in slashing the air around him before rolling across a table on his back. Falling on the floor, he barely managed to reach for the nearby stool and held it in front of him just as the human thrust downward, both hands seizing the handle. With the weapon stuck, Rogue took the opportunity to kick his assailant in the groin, stunning him briefly as he slipped between his legs to climb onto his back. He tried frantically as many times as he could to pry him off, but in the end, Rogue ended the thug's struggle with a single stab to the side of the neck.

With the skirmish now over, Rogue plucked out the throwing knife, wiping the blade clean of blood and placing it back into its sheath before doing the same to the one lodged in the center of the half-elf's head. As he approached, the captive smiled weakly in greeting and gratitude, then it quickly faded as he came closer. Shock and panic seized control of his mind, ordering his body to push himself backwards with his feet. He was able to create a few inches of distance before a small green hand with dirty but trimmed fingernails grabbed his knee. His lips parted and his throat tensed with the intention to scream, his effort failing when another hand cupped his mouth tight and a pair of feet stepped onto his thighs.

"Quiet." Rogue harshly demanded, in Common, through scarf-covered mouth. "Do you want everyone else to come down here?"

The prisoner, although frightful and now even more disoriented by his current circumstance, obediently shook his head side to side in silent denial. Between getting caught and killed by a gang of angry thugs and being under the mercy of an unexpected and frightening savior, he'd choose the latter.

With compliance comes reward. A dagger was promptly slipped into a gap between the thick ropes, and with a few sawing motions, they unraveled. As soon as the hooded stranger retracted his hand and got off of him, the human breathed a sigh of relief, threw away his bindings and stood up to stretch his limbs. At the same time, he didn't waste his opportunity to take a better look at the being in front of him.

In spite of his prolonged period of imprisonment and torture, he was relieved - yet also surprised - to find that his perception of reality remained fairly intact. His rescuer was indeed a goblin, dressed in dark, ragged clothes that appeared more or less handmade; comprised of an ashen, asymmetrical hooded shawl, a scarf in faded red, a brown shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, black thigh-length trousers, finished off with footwraps and fingerless gloves fashioned from leather. Strips of old, dirty bandage were seen wrapped around his arms, legs and face, but they could only do so much to cover up the unmistakable green skin.

"You weren't going to kill me?" the young man asked.

"And then how would I get paid?" Rogue questioned back. "Anyway, your new boss sent me to bail you out."

"Really?" he couldn't help but stare skeptically. "You wouldn't mind asking him where I can get myself a talking goblin, would you?"

Rogue didn't respond, instead glaring at the Turncoat, a hand reaching for the hilt of the dagger sheathed behind his waist. Upon seeing that his expression bore no sign of amusement, Turncoat raised his hands, lips forming into a nervous grin.

"Whoa whoa whoa, take it easy." he excused himself. "Just trying to lighten up the mood, that's all."

"Right." came a half-hearted reply from Rogue who turned his back. "Now keep your mouth shut and stay close."

"Not so fast, my greenskinned friend." Turncoat interjected, prompting his rescuer to face him with an annoyed look on his face. "There's one thing I want to nab before we get out of here."

"What? You dropped something important of yours?" Rogue impatiently questioned.

"Nonono, it's way better than that." the human refuted. "Trust me, the boss is going to love it, and I'm sure he'll give you some extra gold for your troubles!"

"What is 'it' you're talking about? How do I know you aren't making things up?"

"Because why else would I tell you? Anyway, the Baron of this house has a pretty little heirloom that has been passed down through his family for generations, and word is that it was around during the first few decades after the Gods left this world. If the two of us can snatch it, and give it to the boss, then the poor Baron will do just about anything to see it safe and sound."

"So your old friends caught you red-handed before you escape with it." Rogue deduced, eyeing at one of the recently deceased thugs.

"Yep." Turncoat nodded in unanimous agreement. "I still remember where I've last seen it, and I'll take you right to it."

Before the goblin could respond, the bedraggled young man rushed to a nearby body and pilfered from it a dagger for self-defense. Then, after beckoning his companion with a wave of his hand, he started climbing a flight of stone steps which would no doubt lead to some room in the Baron's residence. Seeing no other options, Goblin Rogue decided to follow him.

* * *

The rooms above the cellar weren't unlike what Goblin Rogue expected in his imagination: a majority of them were furnished with expensive items either bought locally or originated from distant lands ripe with exotic attractions. Ranging from beautiful carpets weaved from the finest silk to a figurine that appeared to be of lizard's craftsmanship, they would all fetch a great price as long as one was able to find cunning merchants willing to fence them. Rogue knew a fair few of those opportunistic men and women, yet although he'd love to trade with them, the consequences of getting led astray by unrestrained greed were too dangerous to risk.

Unlike the outside of the manor, not many guards were posted inside to patrol the dim halls, their sources of illumination consisting of moonlight and oil lamps carried by servants going about their duties. Harmless as they might, they would react as any self-respecting homeowners should they catch sight of any prowling strangers. They didn't, however, possess the level of vigilance a soldier would have needed to keep watch over their camp in the dead of night, for the stream of daytime chores have dulled their wakefulness. Sneaking past them wasn't difficult, and none of them have to be put to an early, albeit non-fatal, sleep.

No alarms have been sounded by the time Goblin Rogue and Turncoat made it to the library. Colossal redwood shelves, full with tomes and scrolls of different ages and content, filled the room and were arranged in an orderly manner. A stone fireplace was present, its inside coated with a still-fresh layer of ash and warm, flickering embers. No one else except for them were present; their search, for the moment, were unhindered.

"Are we still looking for that heirloom?" Goblin Rogue impatiently asked. "Or are you looking to grab some books while you're at it?"

"Nah. I was never the reading type." Turncoat answered, letting out an amused chuckle. "It should still be here."

As he stated, Turncoat approached a life-sized marble sculpture depicting the struggle of an armored adventurer, sword and shield in each hand, against a fierce and mighty gryphon standing on its hind legs near the fireplace. To an outside observer, it would appear to simply be another piece of lavish decor placed throughout the Baron's home, but as Turncoat gripped the adventurer by the sword-arm and pushed, it shifted forward until the weapon was embedded halfway into the beast's torso. After that, he rotated the arm once by the elbow.

**CLICK!  
**  
A dull grating noise spread through the nearly empty study, the sound reminiscent of an object like a piece of plank scraping across two walls within a narrow space. As Goblin Rogue once again surveyed the room to see where it could have originated from, his gaze paused when it reached the tyrian purple carpet in the center of the room. A part of it appeared to be covering a small rectangular hole, which wasn't present the first time he entered. Grasping the tapestry by two adjacent corners, he threw it inward, then pushing more of it apart with his foot when his first attempt lacked sufficient force.

"A hollow space with a hidden switch. How original." Goblin Rogue remarked, bending down to retrieve the peculiar object within the now-revealed orifice.

There was a small metal pedestal wrought in iron; and resting in its 'claws' was a book of average size with a crimson cover, ornated with an intricate pattern of knots and lattices in dark brown. It was closed; and taking a peek at the content was out of the question, for it was tightly secured with a complex locking mechanism that could take days, or perhaps months, to fully comprehend its inner workings. Brute force would simply fail to hasten the unlocking process by a single step.

"You've got it!" came a hushed shout of poorly concealed excitement from Turncoat, cutting off any chance of a question from Rogue as he waltzed over with outstretched arms. "Hurry, give it to-"

"Didn't you mean 'us'?" interrupted a gruff, unfamiliar male voice.

A cohort of men and women emerged from the shadows and various hiding places, encircling the two intruders until there appeared to have no conceivable escape route. Their leader, a middle-aged, scarred yet robust human with red hair, stepped forward with a hand resting on the pommel of the sword at his side. At his approach, the color drained from Turncoat's face, and he went behind Goblin Rogue in a feeble attempt to hide.

"The bodies in the cellar..." he stated, a gaze as cold as his tone was directed at Goblin Rogue. "Your handiwork, I presume?"

"Yeah, what about them?" Rogue questioned with indifference.

"I'm afraid you're meddling in affairs that needn't concern you." he said. "Put the book down and you'll walk away unharmed. Mark my words."

"Sorry bud, but I need the gold pieces."

"Then we'd be happy to give you twice the amount. We can even offer you protection from retribution."

"Okay..."

Aside from tightening the clutch on the rusty dagger in his hand as if the very act would grant him the courage he desperately needed, there was nothing else for Turncoat to do other than to feel his blood turn cold as Goblin Rogue squatted and laid the tome on the floor. This was it, he thought to himself, these people were going to make him wish he was dead, and it could've been avoided had he knew better than to trust a filthy goblin. A bump at his knee promptly pulled him away from anxious ruminations, and he glanced down to notice Goblin Rogue motioning him to put a hand over his mouth and nose.

And before he knew what had happened, there was a noise of shattering clay beneath his feet before a cloud of black smoke manifested in an instant, obscuring his vision and assaulting his senses. Tears welling in his eyes, Turncoat hacked and coughed, but so did his would-be torturers. It didn't take long before he felt someone seizing his wrist and led him away to a safe proximity. It was Rogue with the book tucked in his armpit.

Just as he was about to express his gratitude, he saw his escort shoving the locked book into his now-empty palms and mumbled something along the line of 'hold it tight'. Next, he witnessed the goblin picking up a nearby chair by its back, using it as a blunt instrument to break open a window and to clear out stray shards of glass.

"Through here." Goblin Rogue directed, tossing aside the piece of furniture that has served its purpose.

"Are you crazy?!" Turncoat exclaimed as he glanced at the ground below, separated by two-story. "No way in hell I'm going to-"

The human didn't get the chance to finish his protest before Goblin Rogue leaped onto his back, the resulting momentum making him careened over the sill. Suddenly stricken with the terror of imminent, inevitable death by falling, Turncoat screamed helplessly with all the air in his lungs. As the distance between him and grassy land shortened, he rambled a frenzied prayer to all the gods in his mind in the vain hope of easing the passage into the afterlife.

Eventually, he crashed to the ground with shut eyes, expecting himself the newcomer of the unimaginable black void that is the world beyond the material one. Turncoat felt a hand, or at least the presence of one, grasping him roughly by his collar and pulling him to his knees. Dreading it was the warden of souls, he pleaded for mercy, only for his response to be met with a slap to the face. He gasped, opening his eyes with the aid of a regained semblance of rationality.

His breathing steadied once he saw a familiar greenskin standing in front of him with a blank, tattered parchment of paper in one hand that he soon discarded. No wonder they were left unharmed with nary a bruise or a broken bone.

"H-hah, a scroll." Turncoat gasped and stood. "I should've known..."

Before them lies a wide door, wrought of wood and iron, leading into a backstreet. Violently, it was kicked ajar with a strong boot, seconds before a group of guards came pouring into the courtyard. Reaching into one of the small pouches on his belt, Goblin Rogue fished out a palm-sized orb and threw it toward them before they have the opportunity to finish their formation. Rather than creating an impairing dust cloud as Turncoat expected, the resulting impact made a loud thunderous explosion, shattering the aged door and leaving guards unfortunate enough to be within the vicinity dazed and crippled. Taking advantage of the confusion, the two bolted out.

"Where are we going now?" the human fearfully demanded his answer.

"Anywhere but here!" Goblin Rogue nonchalantly replied, tone devoid of empathic understanding.

Turncoat's mouth opened as he prepared another question, only to be replaced with a frightful yelp when he ducked reflexively, narrowly avoiding a disorienting blow from a club that was no doubt chucked at him by a frustrated guard. Then, moments later, loose bricks, stones and bottles were included as well. It didn't appear the criminal thugs cared anything about property damage as long as they succeed in catching the traitor and the hired wetworker.

Then, Goblin Rogue lead his companion into the open street, where it didn't take long before a patrol of town guards proceeded to give chase to them and the pursuing thugs. While they ran, one of them blew hard into the standard-issue whistle he has fished from a pouch on his belt which would alert nearby groups to assist with the effort. As some successfully tackled and wrestled to subdue the struggling ruffians, others were clever enough make an attempt at cutting off the fleeing duo from directions that were less obvious. Letting loose a frightened cry, the nearly breathless Turncoat stumbled and tripped as the hand of one guard wrapped almost completely around his ankle. Fearing a disastrous delay, Goblin Rogue promptly withdrew a throwing knife from his bandolier, took aim, and flung it. Rather than striking the guard in the forehead as intended, the dagger grazed him by the right ear, partially severing it. He didn't waste time to lament his miss; opting to bring Turncoat back to reality with a rough hit to his shoulder when the young man was rendered frozen by the painful sight.

They continued to run, the guards seeming to grow even more relentless while their breath ran shorter. In an attempt to chip away at the pursuers' persistence, Goblin Rogue and Turncoat broke away from the main street and fled into the labyrinthe alleys. The goblin remained silent, even when his directionless, panic-stricken companion pressed him for guidance; his preference lay in finding a hiding place, an escape route at best. However, in spite of his experience and knowledge regarding the town's general layout, there was no guarantee every of his efforts were perfect - else they wouldn't have found themselves standing in front of a derelict house with no alternative paths to take, while the town guards' voices grew in volume behind them.

"A dead end!" Turncoat cried the obvious, grabbing Goblin Rogue in a fit of irrationality. "We're so fucked now!"

"Get off me!" Rogue shouted, wriggling himself free from the human's loose grasp with impatient frustration. Sighing heavily, he scanned the structure before him, searching for footholds and handholds. "We'll have to climb."

"But I've never done that before!" Turncoat responded. "Can't we just try something else, like hiding?"

"Then go and play hide-and-seek." Goblin Rogue grumbled, wasting no time leaping upward to latch onto a ledge. "Pretty sure you can catch up when they're d-"

Before he could finish his sentence, a length of rope was lowered down next to them, followed by a quiet, attention-grabbing hiss coming from the rooftop. It originated from a humanoid figure, whose head and face were shrouded with a cowl and a scarf respectively, leaving them unidentifiable to the authority.

"What are you waiting for?" the goblin prodded, before beginning his ascent with hard-earned nimbleness.

As the shouting of the guards grew more coherent, Turncoat knew it was either do or die, but the first thing he had to worry about was the priceless tome in his hands. Grunting with great exertion, he threw it as high as he could for the mysterious character to catch it. His effort came out short however, as the book reached only a minute part of their fingertips before tether of gravity pulled it down. Fortunately for him, Rogue was able to catch it with one hand before promptly passing the item to its intended recipient. Now reassured, Turncoat clasped the rope and started to climb. It quickly became evident that he was a shoddy climber - an amateur, at best. It was halfway to the top when he became winded from the struggle of ascending the swaying rope, to the point that it was necessary for Rogue and their newfound aid to assist him, lest his grip loosens and he tumbles to the cold, hard ground below.

"Thanks." Turncoat said, sprawling exhaustively on the tiled roof. "I really owe both of you a big one."

"No kidding. You guys created quite the ruckus tonight." the Stranger replied, whose voice was soft and feminine, giving Turncoat mild surprise. She shifted her attention to the sealed book, hoisting it up as she turned to him. "And what's this? Your secret diary?"

"Actually, that's an heirloom you're holding." Turncoat stated earnestly, now sitting up. "Got it from the same place where my new friend saved me."

"We're not friends." Goblin Rogue denied crossly.

"Oh, really?" Stranger said, seeming to pay no attention to what the goblin just spoke. "That's pretty clever of you."

"I appreciate it."

"Ahem." Rogue pretended to clear his throat to the Stranger. "Am I supposed to get my pay from you?"

"Right, I forgot about that. One second."

Reaching for the belt secured around her waist, the hooded woman unhooked a small, plump bag with a rope tied on top and tossed it towards Goblin Rogue. As it landed in his palms, pleasing metallic jingles emanated from the content within, eliciting a satisfied smirk from him as he set about to put away his payment somewhere safe on his belt.

"Much obliged." he thanked.

"Don't go spend it all in one sitting now." Stranger teased, a sly grin formed beneath her scarf.

"Whatever."

With a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, Goblin Rogue leaped off the roof and landed on another one, departing for parts unknown to anyone else but himself.

"Um, do I have to walk across roofs now?" Turncoat questioned, peering down the edge at the dispersing mob of dispirited guards below.

"Trust me, I've got a plan, but I hope you're not afraid of heights."


	2. A Start of Something New

Goblin Rogue was a liar, to both acquaintances and enemies, but he'd be deceiving himself if he believed the trip back to the hideout wasn't fraught with peril. Spurred on by the commotion his previous job has caused, many of the town guards were now as vigilant as a pack of wolves stalking their prey by the moonlight. They searched all the nooks and crannies they can find, questioned some of the citizens who were roused awake for possible sightings whilst enticing them with an attractive monetary reward should the information they provided lead to the arrest of the criminals who dared to disturb the town's peacefulness. Some has allowed sleep to convince them to delay until dawn's next light, but others were more than eager to be participants of the hunt, taking up clubs, torches and numerous instruments to aid them.

So far, he has been able to avoid detection by keeping to the rooftops with quiet, careful strides. However, people wouldn't remain ignorant of their vast surroundings for long; it was only a matter of time before they change their tactics in order to further their goals, even by a small margin. The reminder came to his mind as he pressed his back against a chimney, disappearing from the view of a guard who have glanced upward just at the right moment. Mutely thanking his thief's intuition, he pressed on once the patrol have vanished from sight.

After traversing over a few more roofs, Goblin Rogue descended from the building he was on at the side, leaping off and landing on his feet with a soft 'thud' on the frigid pavement from a safe height. There, he made haste into the alleys, stopping occasionally to scout out potential threats from the darkness before continuing his journey home. For the moment, there weren't many guards or vigilantes presented in the area. Wherever the rest of them have been, Rogue didn't stop to think.

Unprecedentedly, the goblin's elongated ears twitched instinctively in response to a high-pitched cry of distress breaking out in the distance, followed by muffled noises of struggle. He stood frozen, wrestling with a thought.

"Just walk away." Rogue muttered to himself. "You can't let them catch you."

In spite of his self-issued advice however, he found that his legs were unnaturally recalcitrant. It was like they were shackled to two invisible balls of iron; the sort typically used to inhibit the movement of a slave to minimize the chance of an escape. Another faraway cry erupted, this time in lower pitch and of painful nature, before it was replaced with an excruciating grunt of a different voice.

"Dammit. You don't have time for this."

But once again, he felt his body seizing up, refusing to budge an inch from his current position no matter how much he struggled. Distant snickers of a sinister nature soon reached his ears, causing Goblin Rogue to release a leaden sigh and diverted from the main path to the source of the noises.

Golden eyes widened greatly once he saw the disturbing sight in front of him, which has taken the form of a repulsive display of depravity occurring only in one of the town's many dead-ends. A large human male of brutish disposition stood towering over a woman garbed in a disheveled dress on the ground, whose screams were stifled by a meaty hand that kept her pinned and helpless.

"You've got a lot of nerves for someone so small." he said, glimpsing at the fresh teeth mark on his hand. "Can't wait to see how tough you're once I'm through with you."

Incapable of tolerating such disgusting perversity any longer, Goblin Rogue unsheathed his dagger and sprinted forward, fueled by impetuous fervor. By the time the criminal turned his head to see who were responsible for the footsteps, the back of his vulnerable knees were slashed in quick succession. He crouched in agony, and he would've howled had Goblin Rogue not covered his mouth and pushed him to the ground away from his would-be victim. The last thing the thug felt before his life was completely extinguished were the wrenching sensations of a keen knife driven into his torso, over and over.

" Never. Ever. Treat. A. Woman. Like..." Goblin Rogue hissed, punctuating each of his words with every stabs he made. Then, raising his weapon one more time, he roared as he stuck the dagger into the center of the dead thug's chest. "...THAT!"

With fury subsiding, he sat down and panted laboriously. Until he regained his composure, the exhausted goblin failed to notice the Woman behind him, staring at her rescuer in stunned silence with exhausted, fearful, yet beautiful chocolate-brown eyes. Then, once it came to her mind the shocking realization of what kind of being he was, she let out a loud gasp and prepared to scream.

"Don't." Goblin Rogue pleaded as gently as possible; the rage in his eyes has now dissipated and replaced with genuine sympathy. "I w-I'm leaving."

As Common words reached her ears, the Woman couldn't help blinking with surprise. Although reassured, she continued to gaze at Goblin Rogue in newfound confusion, and perhaps with well-justified suspicion. Not wanting to give the frightened young girl further discomfort from his mere presence, the Rogue pulled his dagger out from the nearby body, gave the bloodied blade a cursory wipe with his fingers before sheathing it and starting a hasty retreat.

"Wait!"

Involuntarily, Goblin Rogue slowed his sprint down to a gradual halt. He turned around to notice the rescued Woman standing up and, through a brief jog, approached him and knelt down so that their eyes would meet. He stared anxiously, unable to stop himself from making attempts at predicting her next action.

"I want to thank you." she said; her voice was hoarse with lack of water. "I don't care why you did it, but if you hadn't been here, I-"

"It's okay. What matters is that you're fine." Rogue softly interrupted, somewhat surprised by her gratitude. "But shouldn't someone like you be at home at a time like this?"

"This is where I live, actually." she clarified with a flat tone.

"Here?" Rogue echoed.

"There isn't anywhere else that is cheaper." the Woman unhappily admitted. "I have given up school a long time ago so I can work to support my mother and little sister. Too bad the gold pieces I get won't help us move out of this slum anytime soon."

"And the guy who attacked you..." Goblin Rogue said, glancing at the thug's corpse behind her. "...who was he?"

"I don't know. He came out of the blue when I was walking home tonight and wouldn't take 'no' for an answer." she replied, gripping her forearm subconsciously from lingering discomfort. "He must've drank a lot of ale too before he cornered me."

"Then I'm glad he won't bother you anymore."

"Likewise." the Woman agreed. "But there is something bothering me: How come you don't act like a goblin?"

"I have my reasons." Goblin Rogue replied curtly. "And I think you should have this."

Retrieving the pouch of gold pieces he's received earlier as payment for a job well done, Rogue unfastened the piece of string and poured a portion into his empty palm before offering it to the Woman, who blinked with surprise at the unexpected act of charity.

"I shouldn't. I mean-"

"Just take it." the Goblin insisted. "Right now, you and your family deserve these pieces better than I do."

For a moment, seemingly in contemplation, the young Woman did nothing but gazed at him and his handful of money. Concluding her train of thought, she decided to accept his kind gift.

"I will."

"Good luck."

After taking some time to re-tie the now slimmer bag and attaching it to his belt, Goblin Rogue turned to take his leave.

'Do you have a name?' was what he last heard from the girl. It was the question to which he answered...

"Nobody important."

* * *

Goblin Rogue's prowl resumed through the town's tenebrous alleyways, and as the number of guards diminished on his path, he was relieved to know he was heading in the right direction. Soon, he was able to locate the entrance of the settlement's expansive sewer, manifested as a lone door attached to a frame of corroded metal bars, through which he entered.

In less than a second, his face wrinkled from disgust as a foetid scent reached his nose, easily penetrating the protection of his ragged scarf. He has tried countless times on each returns, yet he remained unable to become accustomed to the stench, especially at some parts where he couldn't linger for long without quickly growing nauseated. In the end however, Rogue understood it was a necessary price to pay in order to live in this dim, damp but clandestine environment.

He hurried onward, guided by the relatively crystal-clear memory of his route home. The trip was far from a casual walk in the woods, for the tunnels resounded with the noises of dripping droplets and coursing putrid water; both of which were accompanied by distant restless squeaks and scurrying feet. Nobody was immune to the unsettling effect of such a discordant cacophony, not even Goblin Rogue and the sewer's less than fortunate denizens. Fortunately, much to his relief, the rats seemed to have their attention directed elsewhere tonight, leaving behind no dangers for the lone goblin to worry about.

Finally, once Goblin Rogue reached his destination and secured the sturdy iron door behind him thrice after he has made his entry, he closed his eyes and allowed a relaxed sigh to escape from his lips.

He was home.

In his little safe haven.

His private sanctuary.

Worn out from the recent ordeal of the night, Goblin Rogue wasted no time stripping off every articles of clothing and pieces of equipment - with the exception of a pair of hand-stitched brown shorts - to put them away at a makeshift rack for convenient retrieval at a later time. His head was a smooth dome, while his squoval face was clean-shaven. Although it was noticeably large, his nose didn't resembled a vulture's beak. Once he was nearly nude, Rogue promptly fell onto a large burlap sack tucked away in a corner of the room, letting out a loud yawn as he pulled a ratty old blanket over himself.

He neither knew nor cared how long it lasted for certain for the next moment, as he recalled only the act of staring at the ceiling in muteness, thinking aimlessly about many things until sleep came to claim him.

* * *

_SPLASH!_

Goblin Rogue yelped as he was jolted awake from his slumber, golden eyes forced wide open as an unbearable frigid sensation spread swiftly across his skin from head to toe. He thrashed about wildly, urged by natural reflex, and he found that he was unable to move. Ceasing his effort to look downward, the goblin discovered - much to his dismay - the reason behind his lack of mobility: a length of rope with impressive thickness was keeping him bound to a moldy wooden chair.

Hurriedly taking a look of his surrounding, it occurred to him that he was now a captive deprived of his equipment and most of his clothing, left at the mercy of numerous strangers of the unsavory sort who turned their eyes towards him once he awakened, their demeanor as cold as ice.

"Rise and shine sleepyhead." mockingly greeted a middle-aged man standing in front of him as he dropped a wooden bucket next to his feet. "You like the cold bath I gave you?"

"Where the hell am I?" Goblin Rogue harshly inquired, sidestepping the question.

"I see that knock on your head wasn't as bad as it seemed." the man commented in a snide manner. "I'm afraid you're going to stay this way until your friends gave back what was ours."

"They were clients. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Say it however you want, goblin. It won't change a thing; not even the fact my cousin is dead."

Goblin Rogue blinked, and then he shrugged unsympathetically.

"Maybe he should have minded his own business then."

"He did. Too bad someone couldn't resist playing the hero to a damsel in distress." the human stated, making the prisoner stare guardedly at him. "A lovely young lady told me the other day about how she was saved from a lowly thug who wanted to ravish her in the middle of the night. She mentioned that her 'knight' wears rags and has a skin color that looked a lot like yours."

"So what? It could have been just a coincidence." Goblin Rogue refuted, and his captor was helpless to hold back a burst of amused chuckle. To those with keen ears, an element of agitation was clearly visible in the goblin's voice.

"My cousin, you see, he was a pain in the ass." the Man said. "I've lost count of the times I have to pull him out of troubles or whenever he's drunk himself into a stupor at the tavern. He's as stubborn as a mule and is as bright as a sack of turnips, but he's still my cousin."

As he gave Goblin Rogue a glowering look, he intended to take one step forward until the door behind him swung open. He turned, along with everyone else, to spot a young man gasping for breath underneath the doorway.

"What's the word?" one of the women in the room asked.

"I hate to the bearer of bad news but..." he said as he presented a rolled-up piece of paper. "...this is what they gave me instead."

The group of criminals, excluding the bound Goblin Rogue, quickly circled the young man once he has shut the door. A few of them, unable to contain their curiosities, started speculating among themselves in murmurs on what content the parchment might have. When he overheard them, the middle-aged man swiftly put an end to the discussion with a curt shush, a few seconds before the paper was unfurled.

As soon as they caught sight on what was on it, most of them were fast to groan in shock and disbelief. Goblin Rogue was confused as to what kind of thing could have upset them in such a way until the crowd dispersed to make way for the older man to approach him, paper in hand. He expected it to be a degrading letter of insult at first, but when it turned out to be quite the contrary, the goblin immediately became the subject to a fit of gleeful chuckle.

It was a drawing made with charcoal of a cartoonish representation of fecal matter, with a sentence beneath it which reads as followed: "Here's your shit!"

His amused reaction came to an abrupt halt when his captor's meaty, calloused hand seized him by the neck.

"Your friends have rich imagination, I'll give them that." he said, watching with sadistic intent as Goblin Rogue struggled futilely for air. "Let's see if you and them find this one funny."

Without showing any hints of hesitation, the criminal suddenly pulled out a knife and, instead of pressing it against his neck as normally expected, he held the sharp point at a dangerous proximity close to his clothed groin. The den soon reverberated with jeers and mockeries as two men spread and held down his legs, taking away his ability to fight back.

"You know, why don't I give a chance?" he asked in a suggestive tone. "If you *ask* nicely enough, I'll let you go and pretend we've never met."

As fast as they laughed, the crowd went silent as they watched with anticipation; the sounds filling the room being only that of the restrained Rogue's shaky breathing. Everyone waited, and they waited for a little bit longer...until it became unbearably clear that nobody was, and would never be, bestowed with infinite patience.

"Do you always have these much troubles making up your mind?" the Criminal inquired in a sarcastic tone. "Guess I'll have to give you a hand then."

Just as he was about to begin his work however, there was a frightful cry as the sole entrance to the den was rendered asunder - courtesy of one of their allies who was thrown against it with force unimaginably great. While he lied on the floor groaning from the agonizing pain of his injuries, all eyes that were trained on him soon turned towards a hooded newcomer pushing away what remains of the door as they stepped inside.

The first noticeable thing many noticed about the stranger was that they - or rather, he - was well-armed. Garbed in a set of leather armor for unhindered movement with plates of steel covering vulnerable parts of the body, in conjunction with a dark brown traveler's cloak and a necklace bearing a stylized maned lion's head made of metal, it would be easy to assume he was an adventurer of intermediate level. He would have appeared to be another human too, had one of the eagle-eyed rogues in the room not gasped fearfully at a few abnormal sights: Two large, dark brown horns adorned his forehead, curving inward to the back. His eyes were even more unsettling than those of their current prisoner, with the sclera bearing the color of blood while the iris that of amber. One couldn't help but to shudder and ponder if he was a victim of a terrible curse of lore long forgotten as she stared at his skin, which looked as if it was stained with soot that no amount of water could wash off.

Last but not least, there was a grey tail of fair thickness with a pronged end that moved side to side behind him, solidifying further the swordsman's otherworldly nature.

"Look, I don't give a damn about what the hell you're supposed to be." the Criminal said with all the bravery he could muster up. "But you've got no business roughing up one of us."

"Then I'm afraid you've brought this on yourself." the Swordsman replied as he assessed his surrounding, his voice a smooth baritone in contrast to his unnerving visage. "I won't stand with my arms crossed while parasites like you line their pocket with people's griefs."

Within the span of a few seconds, the heads of many thugs in the room swiveled towards each other, their eyes widened in incredulity. All of them soon grinned ear to ear in a malicious manner as they readied their weapons, whether it be a dagger, a club or an improvised instrument of harm such as a length of chain used like a whip.

"Well well, looks like we've got another hero." the leader remarked. "Playtime's over, friend."

As soon as he finished his sentence, some of the ruffians that have taken the opportunity to encircle the Swordsman bellowed in unison, charging forward in an all-or-nothing assault to overwhelm him with their sheer number. Instead of unsheathing his sword to make what could be an impossible and useless attempt at self-defense, the Swordsman opted to stick out his left palm and spun with the gracefulness of a master dancer, spraying a circle of magical flame all around him. With such an unsuspecting move, he was able to dispatch a decent number of his foes, taking no note of the wailing, writhing and burning thugs at his feet as he stared steely at the rest of them.

Spurred on by fear rather than bravery, those who were still standing threw themselves once more into the fray, lashing wildly at Swordsman - or Spellsword, to be accurate - with whatever they've armed themselves with. Despite their combined efforts, most of their unrefined swipes were evaded or countered, as attested by a thug unfortunate enough to get disarmed of his own dagger and have it driven into his thigh, moment before a solid uppercut rendered him unconscious while he was distracted by the pain. Before Spellsword could recover and redirect his attention, he found himself fighting to breathe as a woman threw a chain over his neck and tightened it. Meanwhile, Goblin Rogue has taken advantage of the chaos to tilt onto his back, dragging himself and the chair he was bound to across the floor, inch by inch, using his hands in a search for something to cut the rope.

Unfortunately for him, his attempt at escape didn't appear to go unnoticed as he had hoped when he saw the boss of the group dashing towards him, murderous intent evident by the mad look in his eyes. Just as Rogue thought his luck was about to run out, the criminal reflexively glanced behind him when he heard a scream, and he reacted too late to prevent the flying form of one of his colleagues - the same woman who tried and failed to garrote Spellsword - from knocking him down. She was lighter than him however, serving only as a minor obstacle at best. Impatiently, he pushed her aside in haste, but before he could resume his job, he found himself gasping near inaudibly when the keen tip of a sword pricked the skin of his neck. It didn't draw blood, but it wasn't shallow enough to become an ineffective deterrent against resistance either.

Looking upward, he saw that the owner of the weapon was Spellsword, whose demonic eyes seemed to bore into his wicked soul as he gazed sternly at him. Having discarded his cloak in the previous skirmish for swifter mobility, his face was now visible to him. A man of stunning features, he possessed a square face, medium-length ebony hair tied into a neat ponytail, accompanied by a well-groomed beard and thick eyebrows. His ears, although not as elongated as those found on a typical elf, curved upward and possessed a pointy end.

"Please." the defeated criminal pleaded. "Have mercy."

Spellsword spoke nothing. He continued to keep his blade trained at his downed foe's jugular as he walked over to the bound Goblin Rogue. After picking up him up, he sawed away the rope using the sword until it was completely undone.

"Are you alright?" Spellsword inquired with a soft, concerned tone.

"I will be..." Rogue answered, pausing to leap off the chair and pick up a fallen knife on the floor. "...in just a minute."

He lunged at the criminal leader's prone form and, ignoring his undignified, last-ditch protests, plunged the dagger into his throat. The human gurgled pitifully as blood spilled forth from his wound, his eyes rolling backward as the essence of life departed from his body, much to Spellsword's shock. In response, he quickly restrained and turned the goblin around to face him.

"What are you doing?" Spellsword questioned with great disapproval. "I was going to-"

"Turn them over to the guards?" Rogue interjected, shoving his rescuer's hands off his shoulders annoyingly. "Said the guy with horns who wasn't afraid to set people on fire with a wave of his hand."

"I never planned on immolating them." Spellsword defended. "And it would be better if we get these dangerous men and women off the street, as many as possible."

Goblin Rogue only stared at him for the next few seconds, before giving a stifled grin.

"You've no idea who you're dealing with, haven't you?" he asked.

"No." Spellsword answered. "I haven't the slightest clue."

"Well, for starter, these people used to work for the local Baron." Rogue explained, gesturing to the bodies around them. "Not just any baron. The Baron."

"What's so unique about him?"

"Most folks in town would have you believe he is honest and honorable, the 'dutiful son who will continue to carry on his family's legacy'." Rogue replied. "But the truth is, he, and his old man before him, wouldn't be living it large today if they hadn't done some jobs on the side."

"You mean they are criminals?"

"Yep. Black market trade, extortion, smuggling - you name it. He even got some town guards in his pocket too, in case any of his goons get caught conducting business."

"Are you saying we shouldn't go to them?"

"Of course not!" Goblin Rogue affirmed. "They will probably spin up a story to get your head chopped off. Nobody will believe you saying otherwise."

"Looks like I should leave while I still can."

"You do that." Rogue simply responded.

Discarding the rusty knife in his hand to the floor, the half-nude goblin walked over to his equipment which lied next to an overturned table. The thought of the criminals gambling the ownership of his possessions over dices brought no small amount of discomfort to him. Forcibly pushing the unwanted thought out from his mind, he began the process of getting dressed.

"What will you do now?" Spellsword asked.

"I'm skipping town." Goblin Rogue answered, before his eyes became wide with sudden realization. "And no, don't even think about following me. I don't do groups."

"How much do you know about making a fire, hunting and foraging?"

"Not much?" Rogue replied with perplexion. "What are trying to get at?"

"Even if you manage to get out, you wouldn't be able to survive long enough before you reach the next settlement alone." Spellsword extrapolated. "Not without traveling with a caravan or with a skilled ranger."

"Hey, I've prepared enough in case something like this happen." Goblin Rogue argued. "I don't need you telling me what I should do."

"So you wouldn't mind getting mauled by a bear or poisoned by berries you thought were safe to eat? Alright."

Dejectedly, Spellsword walked away from him and leaned down to pick up his dropped traveler's cloak. As soon as he finished putting it on and pulling up the hood, he was prepared to make his departure until he heard a leaden sigh behind his back.

"You know what? Come here for a second." Rogue requested.

And Spellsword did as he was told.

"Here's the plan."


	3. A Path to Elsewhere

_THWIP!_

Face wrinkling mildly from concentration and exertion, Spellsword pulled at the two leather straps which would hold down the flap of his rucksack. He tugged at them a few more times, making sure they were snug and that none of the items inside would spill from a gap small or great. He had checked, and saw to it, earlier he had everything he needed for the journey ahead as well as for daily life: Potions, food and water, camping supplies, and plenty more.

As he put on his baggage, Spellsword took one last look at the scantly decorated but serviceable room he was staying at the day prior before switching off the lantern. After closing the door behind him, he made his way quietly to the ground floor of the inn. Not many customers were present at this time of the evening, save for the hard-drinking, conversation-loving minority who prefer to linger until the early morning to retreat to their rooms or when they were ushered out for closing time. While a young, blond woman busied herself with busking the tables and cleaning up spills and stains on the wooden floor, the burly, mustached, middle-aged innkeeper did his part of ensuring the counter, tankards and barrels were spotless.

"Wait just a moment, sir." Innkeeper called out. "Are you sure you want to make your departure at this time?"

"I'm afraid so." Spellsword replied. "I can't afford to wait until dawn."

"It's not that I want to keep you here." Innkeeper stated sympathetically. "But I highly doubt the guards will let anyone in or out of this town late at night, even if it's a merchant's caravan. It's their job they'll lose if folks got hurt."

"I appreciate your concern." the horned swordsman said as he approached the counter with a smile of gratitude. "But there's a way for me to take my leave without causing any trouble. I can't tell you how, unfortunately, for secrecy's sake."

"I see. Is it safe?"

"It has its risks. I won't omit the fact it will be difficult."

"Hmmm."

The Innkeeper placed a hand on his chin, idly stroking his walnut brown mustache as his peridot green eyes scanned the somewhat deserted room in deep contemplation. After a moment or so has elapsed, he turned to face his guest, resolution evident in his posture and facial expression.

"Alright." he agreed. "Promise you'll be careful, alright?"

"I will." Spellsword swore. "Thank you for allowing me to stay at your inn."

"Don't mention it." Innkeeper replied, grinning humbly. "I'd make a poor host if I judge every books by their covers."

"I concur. Farewell."

"Farewell, and safe travel."

Spellsword proceeded towards the door as he pulled up the hood of his cloak. It gave out a loud creak once he pushed it open, and the same noise was repeated when he closed it. With the absence of a fireplace's soothing warmth, Spellsword involuntarily gritted his gleaming white teeth together as he shivered from the frigid winds of an early autumn night. Undaunted, he wrapped his cloak tightly around his body for a modicum of insulation before hurrying to his next destination, taking careful measures to avoid patrolling guards and stalking scoundrels, especially those affiliated with The Baron.

* * *

Stealth may not have been a strong suit for Spellsword, but he took every opportunity available to exercise it, lest he found himself in a situation where subtlety was an essential element, and the failure to utilize it would lead to certain ruination. He felt nothing else but relief when he was able to make it to the rusted iron door leading into the sewer, the very same one Goblin Rogue mentioned to him when they were formulating an escape plan an hour before they split up.

Whatever the cause that changed Spellsword into his current state granted him darkvision; a trait not uncommon amongst races that were not man. He needn't to traverse deep before he spotted his ally in the distance. He was leaning against the damp, moldy brick wall with a compact leather rucksack on his back. His eyes - vivid and distinctively human-like - darted back and forth, vigilantly scanning the surroundings for possible disturbances. Goblin Rogue's arms were quick to unfold upon seeing his approach, a hand reaching for the grip of his dagger which was always sheathed behind him. When he realized who was walking toward him, it promptly withdrew without prompt.

"About time you show up." Rogue grumbled with clear impatience. "Did anybody followed you?"

"There was nobody." Spellsword replied, pulling down his hood with one hand. "I've made sure it's the case."

"Okay." Goblin Rogue responded. "First thing first."

Grasping a wooden stick propped against the wall next to him, he held it up for Spellsword. Nothing was out of the ordinary with it at first glance, at least until he noticed that long strips of rags were tied around the head. In addition, a pleasant odor emanated from the very spot reminiscent of resin. It was an unlit torch.

Without requiring a verbal prompt, Spellsword's fingers dove into one of the pouches adorning his belt. He procured a tinderbox, and from it, a shard of flint and a piece of firesteel. For two to three times Spellsword struck them together, creating sparks until the torch was ignited. As it started to burn as bright as an evening star, Goblin Rogue passed it to Spellsword once he put away his tools. Even though neither of them required it to see in the dark, it would serve another purpose other than as a light source.

The goblin took out a tattered, yellowed piece of paper and straightened it out. A part of the sketch, made of ink, had become smudged no doubt due to time, but the map of the sewer remained clearly depicted upon it. It should be accurate enough to lead them to where they needed to be.

Wanting to dally around no longer, Goblin Rogue began walking forward, taking occasional turns and glancing at the map every now and then to keep himself and his partner away from dead-ends and other undesirable destinations within the labyrinth of decay.

As they traveled deeper and deeper into the underbelly, the air around them grew increasingly heavy with the stench of refuses and unmentionable wastes, almost to a suffocating degree. Nausea danced wildly within Goblin Rogue's stomach like a carefree forest nymph, but it was the least of his worries, for he had a suspicion: If The Baron's henchmen didn't, or more precisely, were ordered not to follow them down here to pay for their transgressions, then there would be a reason behind it. He highly doubted the criminal underboss would make his decision grounded on morality.

A series of agitated squeaks echoed through the damp and cramped tunnel, sending a chill down the goblin's spine. His footsteps came to a halt, and so did those of his torch-bearing companion. He knew too well what creature was responsible for making the ungodly noises, but just as he prepared to seek out the source…

"LOOK OUT!"

Goblin Rogue's golden eyes became as wide as eggs. His scarred lips parted, but before his question could slip, it was promptly replaced with a yelp as the demon-like swordsman shoved him ahead. He stumbled to the grimy ground, but the unforeseen event failed to prevent him from mustering the effort to keep the foxed map from slipping out of his tight clutch. He looked back and saw, much to his shock, a rodent of unusual size had emerged from the rancid water and was gnawing madly at Spellsword's left calf. Without hesitation nor fear, he jabbed the torch's blazing head down onto the feral beast's nape. As the rat squealed loudly from the searing pain and thrashed about with reckless abandon in an attempt to free itself, Spellsword plunged the tip of his sword into its head, killing it before removing his weapon and booting the lifeless body back into whence it came.

"Shit." Goblin Rogue cursed. "Did you catch The Plague?"

"I don't think so." Spellsword answered, bending down slightly to inspect the extent of the damage on his boot. There were considerable teeth marks upon it, but no tears in sight. "The leather was too thick for it to bite through."

"Ain't that reassuring." Goblin Rogue cast a half-skeptical glance at his direction. "Let's get going before more of them sho-"

He unexpectedly let out a surprised cry as an aggressive squeal came from his back. It was another rat, descending rapidly from the air onto Rogue's prone form. Acting quickly, he rolled to the side, denying the creature its chance at a swift killing blow. As the rodent's tiny head swiveled and glared at him with its sinister beady eyes, Spellsword took advantage of the beast's lapse in attention and sprinted toward it, letting out a grunt as he attempted a lunging stab. The giant rat, however, was far more aware than initially expected. It hopped a short distance backward, taking its scar-ridden body away from the reach of his steel sword. As Spellsword's combat instinct kicked into full gear, he turned around to swing his torch behind him, forcing a smaller, younger, less battle-hardened rat back before it could pounce on him to sink its jagged teeth into his neck.

Goblin Rogue quickly took his chance to properly get up before discovering that, much to his dismay, he had unwittingly soaked the aged map in the stream of sewage. Muttering a curse under his breath, he expended all his effort to wring it dry, but it was no use, for their only source of guidance was beyond salvaging. With a heavy, frustrated sigh, Rogue discarded it and drew his dagger. As he and the elder rat exchanged glares, the goblin retreated until the back of his hooded head bumped lightly against Spellsword's waist. Startled, the duo glanced at each other until, through shared understanding of the greater threat, shifted their focus onto their respective foes.

Letting out two screeches in near unison, the giant rats charged at their prey. If these simple animals didn't hesitate, then so would they. As they jumped, Goblin Rogue dove forward and rolled whilst Spellsword waited and seized the opportunity as soon as it presented itself to take another swing with his torch. The young rat was sent sliding across the stonework, squealing and squirming from the flames licking at its coarse grey fur as its older counterpart landed and caught nothing. Before it could attack Spellsword, the dual-wielding warrior pinned the rat down with his boot before ending its struggle with a decisive stab to the head. While he was leaning down, Goblin Rogue deftly leaped over his back, sprinting at the smoldering rodent and jamming the blade of his dagger as deep as possible into its neck. Once the vermin's body was motionless, the thief took the utmost care to yank his weapon free in order to prevent any of its toxic blood from spraying onto him.

"Well fought." Spellsword complimented with a cordial smile, shaking off the crimson filth clinging to his blade.

"Appreciated." Rogue responded, mirroring the same movement with his weapon.

"Do you still remember the way to the exit?"

"Yeah, but no promises. It's still pretty far from where we are."

"Alright, let's try to do this as cautiously as possible."

A few more rats emerged from the shadows, announcing their arrival with their unmistakable screeches. No doubt they had caught the scent of blood in the air.

"Or not." Goblin Rogue chimed.

Just as they readied the proper stances for another battle, the rodents suddenly scurried away as if the prey in front of them were the living embodiment of death. Befuddled, Goblin Rogue and Spellsword looked to one another in a vain search for a logical explanation until the goblin peeked over his shoulder, and his heart skipped a beat from what he saw.

Giant roaches.

A horde of the accursed insects were on their tail.

"RUN!"

Goblin Rogue didn't allow his desperate bellow to finish echoing through the tunnels before he and his companion hastily sheathed their weapons to start sprinting for dear life. Amidst the assault of bleak thoughts and depleting breath, Rogue summoned all the willpower he had left to force himself to stay calm. If he panicked, this chase would've ended before it even began. Rogue navigated the corridors as best as he could, looking to his side every now and then to make sure Spellsword was still following him. They passed by the half-eaten corpses of those whose cruel fates had exiled them down to these depths; stark reminders that they would be among the dead should they succumb to their fears or go down the wrong path. Inadvertently, the latter of which was what Goblin Rogue had committed.

A brick wall was in their way. The relentless swarm was closing in on them.

"Fuck!" Goblin Rogue swore. "If you want to lay it out on me, this is the time."

"No." Spellsword refused. "There's something I'll try."

Taking in a deep breath and then exhaling, Spellsword held his right arm close to himself. Rogue looked on in perplexity, uncertain if the strange motion was meant to save their lives or be his last rites. Unexpectedly, the swordsman thrust his empty palm in front of him, and before Rogue could even blink, the dilapidated wall was swiftly unmade with a powerful telekinetic blast. Without idling for a second, they made their way through the newly-revealed path. They soon felt a noticeable draft upon their skin, and with its presence went to the end of a long, cramped pipe where the town's wastewater flowed out from.

"Grate." Spellsword stated.

A metal covering was the only thing left standing between them and freedom. Neither his strength nor the spells he had would be able to do anything to it.

"I'll handle this one." Goblin Rogue volunteered.

With no objections presented, Spellsword scooted over to the side so the goblin could take over the spot at the front. Once there, Rogue's hand went inside one of the pouches on his belt, fingers sifting through the content until he pulled out a medium glass vial filled with clear liquid. As soon as he yanked off the cork, Goblin Rogue began pouring the content all around the barrier to its last drop. Harsh sizzling noises quickly came to their ears as the grating was eaten away by a corrosive agent that was no doubt acid. Once the metal melted thoroughly, Rogue gave the grate a hard kick, sending a part of it down to the large puddle below with a loud splash.

With no further uses for the torch and the empty vial, the two promptly discarded them and sprinted as far as they could into the woods outside the settlement's walls, away from the view of the stationed guards and out of the territory of the rats and roaches.

They might not have come out smelling great, but they were more than relieved to have come out with their skins intact.

* * *

Deep within the forest lied a clearing with no beasts, bandits or monsters in sight. Spellsword proposed it would be the perfect place for him and Goblin Rogue to rest their bodies and minds for the journey ahead. The weary Goblin Rogue couldn't dare to turn down such offer.

With a couple of flint strikes and cautious blows at the smoking tinder, the campfire they've set up quickly lit up into a full-grown blaze in a rough span of one minute. Shining brightly with unmatched intensity, it was a beacon of sanctuary. They could rest easy for the time being, for they only hear the gentle rhythm of crackling fire and hooting owls.

Now sitting across from his equally odd companion, Goblin Rogue pulled out a battered metal flask from his backpack. Deft slender fingers worked swiftly to grasp and twist the cap loose before bringing the opened top to the goblin's parched lips. For a short moment, he indulged himself with a few swigs. He sighed deeply once he was finished, closing his eyes so he could savor the pleasant burn of alcohol in his throat.

"So…" Spellsword spoke. "Can you tell me a little about yourself?"

"What's there to tell?" Goblin Rogue responded as he clutched the flask. "As far as I'm concerned, we won't be seeing each other for a while after this."

"Come on, no need to keep everything to yourself. Surely you have at least something you're willing to share?"

"You haven't exactly talked much about yourself either. Just because you saved my ass doesn't mean I trust you."

Spellsword's thick eyebrows rose with realization. There was solid reasoning to be found in Goblin Rogue's words.

"How about this?" the swordsman proposed. "I'll let you ask as many questions as you want about me, but in return you'll have to do the same for me. Deal?"

"Fair enough." Rogue agreed, stowing away his flask. "Okay, what's the deal with the horns, the tail and everything?"

"I'm not sure how I ended up looking like this, to be honest. All I remembered was waking up one day to find myself already changed."

"That's it?" Goblin Rogue gazed skeptically, trying to determine if the answer was in any way truthful. "You wouldn't happen to be part of the Demon Lord's army, would you?"

Spellsword couldn't help holding back a casual smile.

"I don't think we would be sitting here talking if that was the case. I do look the part yes, but my thoughts and actions are anything but demonic."

Rogue shifted mildly in his seat. What a strange coincidence it was.

"Are you a...deserter, then?" Rogue guessed.

"I don't know." the ashen male shrugged. "People have taken to call me a Half-Demon."

"But how come nobody has killed you yet?"

"Not everyone is as close-minded as you think. As long as you take the time to talk and prove you mean no harm, people will trust you. I can attest to that."

Goblin Rogue blinked, mute with disbelief.

"If you want, I can tell-"

"Sorry, but I'd rather you keep your story to yourself." the goblin interrupted. "Anyway, what are you going to do once we split?"

"I'll keep looking for my past and memory." Spellsword replied with bald-faced honesty. " I want to find out who I am and why I became like this."

"Good luck with that."

Rogue's head tilted backward as he once again brought the flask to his mouth, sipping himself some more brew of acceptable quality.

"Do you have any more questions?" Half-Demon Spellsword inquired.

"Nah." the goblin wiped away the excess alcohol clinging to his lips with the back of his hand. "Are you going to shoot some at me or what?"

"Right." Spellsword paused to take a whiff of the autumn air, both to savor it and to steel himself. "What are you doing in a large town running errands for criminals?"

"Well…" Goblin Rogue trailed off, his amber eyes staring off into space in deliberation. "Let's just say that things don't work so well when other goblins are involved. I mean, it's easier for me to silence a loudmouth or fetch a couple of things."

"I don't understand." the swordsman's hand reached for his beard, plucking it lightly. "From what I gather, goblins aren't interested in gold, let alone speak Common. How come you are different?"

"I'm different because I have my reasons. You'll sleep fine even if you don't know."

"That wasn't an answer, I'm afraid."

"I can't talk about it because I *don't* want to, okay?" Goblin Rogue threw an agitated scowl in Spellsword's direction. "Have you always been this nosy?"

"I didn't-"

"Save it. Just...forget about it." Rogue halted. As soon as he finished stashing away his belongings to safe spot, he crawled into the spare bedroll that had been provided to him earlier, facing away from his host. "Wake me up when it's morning. Or not."

A heavy, disappointed sigh slipped from the demonic swordsman's lips. As his companion slipped gradually into slumber, he acquiesced that nothing else could be done and decided to retire for the night. After stoking the campfire, Spellsword made himself as comfortable as possible in his bedroll, staring at the mesmerizing starry sky looming over them until sleep overtook him.

* * *

"I'd like to apologize...for what happened last night."

Goblin Rogue looked up, staring at the Spellsword's fearsome feline-like eyes with hesitant curiosity. Slowly, he chewed the tender snow-white flesh in his mouth. It used to belong to the large, hot skewered fish in his hand which was speared from a stream not far from the camp and roasted evenly over an open fire. Spellsword had caught two in his early morning's fishing trip: one for his companion, and one for himself.

"I shouldn't have forced you to answer the question."

"It's fine." Goblin Rogue replied once he swallowed his portion. "Not like you can read my mind and know how I feel."

"Did you sleep well last night?"

"Alright, I guess." Rogue shrugged, pausing to pick out a piece of bone from his mouth and discard it. "Didn't really have a nightmare, or a dream, though."

"That's good." Spellsword commented. "But don't be afraid to let me know if something's bothering you, okay?"

Goblin Rogue's attention wavered. He glanced elsewhere in contemplation.

"Let me think about it." he responded.

"Take as much time as you need." Spellsword said, a congenial smile crossing his features. An unintelligible mutter slipped from between the goblin's lips, which he decided to interpret as a crude acknowledgement.

As their breakfast draws to an end, a faint series of what sounded like frantic breathing traveled to Rogue's keen ears, growing ever clearer and louder with each second that has elapsed. He stood up with haste, scouting his surroundings up and down for the origin of the noises. Rogue soon stepped to the side, out of the path of a human who quickly collapsed in front of them. Spellsword hurried to his side, lifting him up with both hands.

From his matted raven-black hair, chocolate brown eyes and round shaven face, the stranger appeared to be either a teenager or a young adult. His shoulders were broad, and his arms possessed fair thickness - both evidences of a laborious upbringing on a farm or similar environment. His forest green tunic, brown trousers and leather shoes were all tattered and caked with soil. Two to three arrows protruded from his shoulder and back like needles on a pincushion.

He was attacked.

The sight of a horned man with unusual complexion only aggravated his fear.

"Easy." Spellsword spoke firmly, but not without compassion. "I'm not going to hurt you. Tell me what happened."

"O-our caravan...we were jumped…" the wounded man replied. He was weak, delirious, and full of desperation. "I ran...h-hoped to get away…"

"Hold on, I'll get you a potion r-"

"It's too late...lost too much b-blood…" he sighed heavily, his eyelids growing leaden. "Hurry back...while you can…"

"Where did you run from?" Spellsword asked.

Unable to find any more strength to speak, the young man looked behind him and pointed. His right arm went limp afterward, his head drooping backward alongside it. He was no more.

Shaking his head with sorrowfulness, Spellsword closed the departed man's eyes and laid him gently on the forest floor. He didn't take much time to extinguish the campfire and packed up his gears. Goblin Rogue followed suit with the latter step.

"You aren't thinking about heading up there, are you?" the goblin inquired as he put his backpack.

"I am." Spellsword replied. "There could still be survivors."

"But how can you know for sure?"

"I'll take my chances."

Without providing Goblin Rogue with an opportunity to reply, Spellsword began sprinting off toward the direction indicated by the now-deceased man. The goblin's mouth hung agape, shocked by the unfavorable turn of event. Unwilling to be left with no guidance nor aid, Rogue promptly tried to keep up with his stubby legs.

* * *

The wreckage of the caravan which the stranger used to belong lied a far distance up on the main dirt path. Ruined, overturned wagons lied scattered; the horses responsible for drawing them were either missing or dead with arrows sticking out from their sides. The corpses of those who didn't have the fortune to escape were strewn across the grassy floor like macabre decorations, their dull and lifeless eyes continued to look on in terror. Further ahead, the noises of clashing steel and incoherent cries resounded.

Drawing his sword free from the leather scabbard at his side, Spellsword made silent strides towards one of the carts, his brows creased with concentration. Ducking behind it, he peered out from the side, assessing the situation. Goblin Rogue was by his side, dagger at the ready.

"What did you see?" Rogue asked. "Bandits?"

Spellsword turned to him and nodded. His expression was grim.

"Goblins, too."


	4. An Unsettling Skirmish

Goblin Rogue froze at the mention of that word.

His eyes were wide with disbelief.

He skipped over without a moment of delay, taking over Spellsword's position as the swordsman reflexively hopped away at his approach. Rogue's rudeness was clear as glass, but he stayed quiet, choosing instead to stand up a little to covertly observe the melee alongside him.

"Ha! Was that all you got, you little shit?!"

A stout man with untamed, shoulder-length straw-colored hair bellowed unabashedly as he sprinted and threw one foot forward, aiming it at the head of a stunned goblin armed with a spear. As the steel-toed boot collided squarely against its face, the scrawny, pot-bellied monster flew off and let out one last sickening gurgle before departing from the mortal coil. It was almost pitiable.

Smirking with excessive pride at his easy victory, the rugged, barehanded man failed to notice another attacker behind him. He would've been struck down, had a loosened stone missed and failed its task of forcing out a cry that alerted him. Glancing over his shoulder, he discovered a smaller, leaner and less well-off man in simple leather armor on the ground. He was grasping tightly onto his side with a grimace, hissing between clenched teeth from the aching pain of a fractured rib. Letting out shaky breaths, he stared at him with an unbalanced combination of fear, indifference and hatred on his face.

"You did well, my friend." he said with a calm tone, addressing a nearby woman with a sling who had protected him, as well as to the injured assailant. "Let me give you a reward."

Undeterred, he scrambled with desperate haste for the dagger that had slipped from his grasp earlier, an act to which the yellow-haired brigand thwarted by coldly stepping on his outstretched hand with one foot and kicking away his only means of defense with the other. He cried loudly, his entire body squirmed as he struggled to free his crushed appendage with little to no avail. Snickering with sadistic delight, the bandit dropped down, pinning his weaker enemy down with one knee while wrapping his calloused hands around the other man's neck, squeezing it as an angler would with his fishing rod, driven with determination to bring in a legendary catch.

With a predator's patience, the raider watched as the caravan guard's face lose its lively hue, his mouth agape as he gasped for precious air with futile fervor. He saw how his gloved hands, which clawed at the air and at his face with little effect, were losing their strength. Death was coming to collect another due soul.

Suddenly, the brigand's vision went dark, and the space around him quickly turned claustrophobic.

In a fit of blind panic, he stumbled backward off his would-be victim and onto the ground. Screaming muffled obscenities on top of his lungs, he flailed his arms in a wild fashion, thrashing about to free himself from a tattered dark-brown cloak that was thrown on him without a warning. Just as he managed to regain his bearings, he felt a clawed hand gripping the collar of his tunic before yanking him off the earth. The raider's yelp of protest fell on deaf ears as he was spun around and roughly restrained with a sword placed just beneath his Adam's apple, discouraging an escape attempt.

"Let him go, you son-of-a-bitch!" the Slinger shouted with exponential fury at the recently-arrived Spellsword, stowing away the sling to draw a blade of her own from a scabbard hanging at her side. A few bandits - around three to four of them - rushed over to her aid and encircled him, their weapons still slick with mixed blood.

The horned swordsman's golden gaze passed by each of them at least once as he quietly assessed the situation. They shared the same intense aura of passionate scorn. Without their sense of camaraderie to hold them back, they would be more than glad to dive in and tear him apart until he was nothing. He also saw, at the corner of his vision, the wounded guard he'd saved earlier getting up on shaky legs, clutching his side while hobbling away from the fighting to safety. The straw-haired brigand writhed almost imperceptibly in his grip, looking pleadingly into the eyes of his allies in the hope that one of them would act to save him from this moment of vulnerability. His wish was granted, but not in the way he had expected. He let out a cry as Spellsword shoved him away with a strong kick to the back, causing him to collide against a friend and forcing the two of them to the ground. An agonized scream soon erupted amidst the confusion. They looked and saw, to their horror, a nearby bandit keeling over on his knees, fighting a losing battle to keep blood from gushing out of a large gash on his stomach.

Roaring with blind rage, a brigand with an eyepatch and rotten teeth charged at Spellsword, swinging his crude spiked cudgel at his head. He reflexively ducked beneath it, then nimbly skipped to the side before the second blow could come down on him. He raised his sword, intercepting the club in the middle of his third attempt and redirecting it to an alternative direction. As the bandit staggered from a loss of balance, Spellsword threw an overhead punch at the center of his face. While he careened to the soil with a pained grunt, the sorcerous swordsman spun to his side and thrust his right arm forward, impaling another brigand nearby through his chest, just under his ribs. The blond-haired bandit he'd restrained earlier dashed madly at him, tackling him to the ground with a fierce grunt while he's just finished freeing his blade. He pinned down his sword-arm with one hand and the half-demon's face with the other. Spellsword grasped at his chin in retaliation, struggling to break loose as the recovered cyclopean bandit brought the club upward with a bloodthirsty grin on his face.

A piercing pain abruptly shot through his body, originating from the back from his head. An almost inaudible gasp escaped from his widened mouth before he tripped and collapsed on his front. A throwing knife of simple, utilitarian design was embedded in his nape. The sudden nature of the one-eye's death effaced the presence of Spellsword from the blonde-haired bandit's mind long enough for him to shove him off and regain his weapon and footing.

"What the…" the bandit squinted until his eyes almost resemble horizontal slits, trying his best to make out the obscured features of an approaching short humanoid. "Is that what I think it is?"

"You tell me." Goblin Rogue's reply was dry and partly muffled, having pulled his scarf up to conceal his face earlier before joining the melee. He bent downward and, with a hard tug, pulled the knife free from the dead man's skull. With the efficiency and the sense of detachment of a master assassin, he ran the blade along the fabric of the corpse's tunic, cleansing it of blood before replacing it in the leather bandolier strapped diagonally to his torso.

"Ah shit." the man cursed. "As if I don't have enough on my plate already."

Picking up the cudgel to his left, he stood, preparing himself for combat with the unusual pair with his two other companions. Before either side were able to make their first move, a shrill cry tore through the air, nabbing their attention. Another brigand it seemed, as evident by his rough appearance and fur-wrought clothes, flew across the field like a boulder launched from a siege catapult. He crashed to the ground, but against common expectations, he came out no worse for wear.

"I'm alive!" he proudly declared after a few pats to his chest. His amazement, as with his smile, fade in a flash a group of goblins - seven to eight of them - flooded his vision. He scrambled away, propelled by fearful haste, and then he cried out in realization at his inescapable gruesome fate.

"Damn it." the Slinger swore. "We've got a hobgoblin!"

"Shade-min!"

A chorus of terrible, agonized screams of men and women rang out sharply in near-perfect synchronicity, preceded by loud crackles of lightning. A number of brigands, their bodies wracked with unbearable pain, fell over spasming and smoking. Vulnerable to the goblins' sadism, the men suffered cruel deaths, while the women were quickly carried off to a fate worse than it. The straw-haired bandit and his companions stared wide-eyed at the horror, while Spellsword and Rogue turned their heads away.

A hobgoblin stood at the center of that chaotic scene, yanking its ornate steel battleaxe out of the head of an unfortunate bandit. Flanking its right was a smaller, scrawnier goblin dressed in a tattered, sleeveless indigo robe. The upper half of large, reptilian skull capped its tiny head, and in one of its hands was a makeshift staff crafted from wood, feathers and bones.

"Boss, we've gotta bail!" the fellow standing next to the blond man cried to him. "No way we can-"

"Can it, you ninny. I've got what you meant." the Boss cut him short, grasping and tugging firmly at the collar of his tunic, an intimidating grimace visible on his visage. As he released his subordinate, he cupped one hand to his mouth and bellowed as loud as he could. "TAKE WHATEVER YOU CAN! WE'RE LEAVING!"

The surviving brigands, judging from the lack of verbal protest, appeared to have agreed unanimously with his order, wasting no time nabbing anything they can salvage - be it weapons, trinkets or other sorts of valuables - before joining their leader in his flight. As he turned his back in preparation to evacuate, the Boss locked for a few seconds his sapphire eyes with Spellsword's golden, cat-like ones. No words came from his lips. They weren't necessary.

The swordsman ground his teeth and clenched. He stamped one foot to the ground, and then he broke into a full sprint. Spellsword would've had succeeded in bridging the gap between them to execute a decisive blow, no matter physical or magical, had he not been knocked to the ground by a goblin that was thrown at him. Spellsword laid prone, hissing from the impact as other goblins hurriedly encroached on him. Flipping onto his back, he sliced the ankles of the one on his right and punted another ahead of him. With an effort-heavy grunt, he sat up, sweeping quickly his left hand to the opposing side as a dazzling gout of magical flame sprayed forth from the center of his palm, incinerating those unfortunate enough to be within its range. As Spellsword got up, the hobgoblin with the greataxe hoisted across its shoulders stood at at his front, accompanied by some of its smaller brethren. The shaman was nowhere to be seen. They stared at each other, and the swordsman's gaze was as cold and indifferent as his steel sword. As long as the monster continues to breathe, getting to the surrounded Goblin Rogue to deliver him the aid he needed would be useless.

He charged forward.

* * *

Goblin Rogue's head darted back and forth, tightening his grip on the trusty dagger he'd whipped out earlier. None of the goblins have attacked him, at least not at the moment. They sniffed at the air and exchanged murmurs among them. He couldn't understand what they were discussing. It could be about him, but it could also be about something else unrelated. One goblin stretched its arm ahead, albeit at the behest of another one who prompted it with a rough shove to its back. As calloused, grimy fingers were an inch away from touching his forehead, Rogue reacted reflexively. He snatched its wrist, pulled the repugnant creature towards him and plunged the jagged tip of his dagger into its abdomen. It howled excruciatingly to the horror of its allies, which then morphed into a pitiful croak once Rogue ruthlessly dragged his weapon upward and pulled it free.

Overcome with fear and fury, many goblins leaped into the fray all at once, giving Rogue no time to relent. Some seized his limbs and disarmed of his dagger, while others punched, kicked and stomped on him without impunity. One of the little devils cackled with sadistic mirth, brandishing a crude shiv dripping with unknown poison. Fortunately, it never had the chance to put it to use when the shaman's staff thwacked its bald crown, effectively dissuading it.

With a haughty smirk, the Goblin Shaman bent forward on its knees, looking up and down at the bruised but relatively unharmed Goblin Rogue, pinned to the floor by an array of hands. It tugged at his scarf, revealing bared teeth which were strangely immaculate. Rogue's head snapped forward, biting nothing but air before a hand grasped his neck. He couldn't do more than to wheeze and breathe, with unstable rhythm, as the shaman pulled apart his eyelids using its spindly digits. Next, it drew back his lower lip, ran its hand along the length of his ears, then moved down to lift up his shirt and-.

Gods. His face heated up, a whirlwind churned in his stomach. The goblins that surrounded them pointed, laughed and chatted like peasants watching a play.

He strained his neck, spitting one spiteful wad at the shaman.

* * *

Spellsword hopped to the side with a graceful pirouette, forcing the Hobgoblin's axe to cleaves cleanly the unfortunate goblin behind him instead. He inhaled sharply through his teeth, forehead wet with perspiration. He was far from oblivious with the undignified situation his companion was trapped in, and he wouldn't stand by to let the shaman does whatever it pleases.

With a thunderous shout, he stepped forward, slashing diagonally with his bloodstained blade while the green giant was busy recovering from its missed swing. It roared as an uneven gash erupted across its rotund stomach, blood quickly pouring out from the wound. Growling with seething rage, it unexpectedly thrust forth its left hand, catching Spellsword off-guard and throwing him to the ground. Before he had the chance to pick up his sword, the half-demon was seized by his hair from behind and pulled away. Grinning with murderous joy, the hobgoblin forced two of its dirty fat fingers into Spellsword's mouth. He retched, letting out muffled screams as indescribable agony flared across his jaw.

The Hobgoblin paused abruptly, and so too his struggle. His tapered ears caught the sound of a loud, squelching 'POP!' above him, and his shoulders and ebony hair did the same with some recognizable thick, slimy liquid. Looking up, Spellsword spotted the thin wooden shaft of an arrow protruding from where the monster's right eye used to belong.

It promptly dropped him without a second thought, shifting its priority towards nursing its wound instead.

The wounded guard in leather armor from before stood erect next to one of the wagons, his cuts-marked face expressionless. Procuring another arrow from a sheepskin quiver nearby, he drew back the string and let go, loosening it at one of the goblins encircling the Shaman and Rogue.

* * *

The Shaman recoiled as quickly as it came onto him before. Swiping away the saliva clinging to its cheek with the back of its hand, the skull-crowned goblin glared daggers at him, snarling not unlike a noble whose family name has been besmirched at a royal banquet. Without even bothering to fasten Rogue's trousers, it raised its staff towards the sky and flapped its lips, preparing a spell which would make him regret dearly for his brazen defiance. It didn't have the chance to finish the invocation, having been pulled away from the task at hand by one of its lesser kin' death shriek.

"How do you like that, you filthy beast?!" the Guard taunted, his indiscretion not without deliberation. Half of the goblins quickly turned to look at him, baring their fangs and readying their weapons, the presence of the anomaly that fascinated them earlier evaporated from their minds like the morning mist.

Smiling nastily, the human proceeded to bring out a rectangular-bellied glass bottle filled with a deep red liquid reminiscent of blood. Placing the top of the vessel between his teeth, the Guard pulled hard, spitting the cork to the ground as soon as it came loose. He sucked in a deep breath, brought it close to his lips and tilted the bottle upward. Without pausing for air, he gulped down the elixir each time his mouth was full and until nothing was left. While the sharp aftertaste of iron lingers still upon his tongue, he let out a loud cry and hurled the empty container, striking an advancing goblin on the head. It tripped over in a blink of the eye, screeching painfully from the shards of glass cutting into its skin.

"COME ON!" the Guard shouted with bloodshot eyes and picked up two swords. "LET'S SAY HELLO TO MY FRIENDS!"

He fought as a man possessed.

* * *

The ensuing distraction however, didn't suffice to draw the attention of the four goblins holding down Goblin Rogue by his limbs. They would've had, by all means, released him, if it wasn't for the Shaman who barked at them to keep up their task. Spurred on by the oldest fear, it snatched away a small rusty knife from the grip of a nearby underling. Dropping its staff, the Shaman straddled Rogue's waist, raising it high so that he could efficiently introduce it to his beating heart. He closed his eyes, bracing himself for a fatal blow.

"Hey!" a familiar baritone called out.

The Shaman froze with confusion, looking to its side. Before it could react, the skull-crowned creature was sent flying with a powerful kick to its face. It tumbled along the grass, hollering painfully in the process. Two goblins were then dispatched with one swift slash of the sword, and as it happened, Rogue sprang into action. Balling up his left hand, he threw a solid hook at the jaw of the goblin that was pinning down his other arm and kicked away another one restraining his right ankle. Respectively, they later died of a broken neck and a punctured throat.

"Are you alright?" Spellsword asked, eyes wide with worry.

"I'll live." Rogue replied brusquely, standing up to readjust his loosened black breeches. "It was pretty smart of you to leave me all by myself to these fuckers."

"Sorry. I promise I won't do it again."

"Mmmph."

A different, yet familiar deafening roar arose from the back, making both males look over their shoulders. The Hobgoblin, with the arrow shaft no longer embedded in where its right eye once belonged, was rushing towards them with the greataxe. They rolled at two different directions, barely avoiding a wide, luminous and deadly half-circle. As it regained its poise, the giant glanced back and forth, indecisive on who it should pursue first. Putting his own two fingers into his mouth, Spellsword whistled piercingly and waved in hopes of becoming its beacon for attention. He succeeded, and the Hobgoblin lumbered at his direction rather than that of Rogue's. With a nimble skip, the half-demon evaded a downward chop and sprayed another stream of flame from his left palm aimed at its torso and face.

"Damn it!" Spellsword swore. Instead of enveloping it, the lapping fire went around the Hobgoblin who was now protected by a timely casted Counterspell, courtesy of the recovered Shaman, dissipating harmlessly. Lips splitting into a broad malicious grin, the giant advanced without fear, forcing the powerless Spellsword to fall back with every step it took. It brought up the axe, ready to end the struggle once and for all, but the weapon slipped from its grasp and fell blade-first to the ground. An overwhelming odor comprised of smoke, burning hair, and melting flesh quickly spread out through the area, followed by sounds of helpless flailing and terrified wails.

Taking some time to look to his left, Spellsword spotted Rogue, standing over a familiar prone yet animate form with a club in hand, the bulbous head wet with a fresh coat of blood. It didn't take long to conclude it was a moment of much-needed catharsis for his companion. In addition, a blow to the head couldn't be, in any conceivable way, beneficial for a spellcaster's concentration.

Turning his focus back to the matter at hand, Spellsword rushed to the side of the smoldering Hobgoblin. It rolled back and forth wildly upon the grass, hoping to smother the flame before succumbing to its insatiable nature. The half-demon placed one foot upon the back of the vile creature's head, pinning it in place before planting his blade firmly in its nape. A weak choking noise escaped, and the limbs ground to a gradual halt. Unsatisfied, Spellsword removed the sword, stepped away, and stabbed in the center of the skull. Only did the Hobgoblin failed to rise that he dared to pull out and wipe his weapon clean with a free, leather-padded palm.

The Shaman lying beneath Goblin Rogue panted as it began crawling away. Its right cheek was indigo, swollen in a terribly disfiguring manner, with a line of blood running down from the corner of its lips. A few teeth have been knocked loose from its mouth; a fact which became even more evident as it frowned fearfully. It gazed at him with tear-streaked cephalopod-like eyes and whimpered, hoping for mercy.

Rogue stared, quietly, with an impassive expression.

He raised the club and brought it down on the Shaman's right leg, willfully deaf to the resulting horrified scream. He repeated the same movement, this time aiming for the face.

* * *

Letting out a roar which appeared as though it came from a wounded feral beast, the Guard ripped a hatchet out from a goblin's hands and swung as hard as he could without reservation. The axehead, in an instant, departed from the handle with an ear-splitting crack upon impact with the green devil's temple, leaving the human with a simple stick. Unfazed by his loss, he grabbed another by its hair and shoved what remains of the weapon through one of its eyes.

Stricken with exhaustion and assaulted with a pounding headache, which no doubt could've been a side effect of the potent potion he has drunk, he failed to notice a third one leaping onto him from behind. As soon as he felt a sudden weight burdening his back, the Guard cried out and thrashed about wildly in response. He pried at the skinny green arms wrapped around his neck and flung the back of his fist towards his rear, but all he earned from the struggle was a single debilitating stab of a spear to his vulnerable side. The human fell, with a sharp cry of pain, to the ground, where he was greeted with goblins who wasted no time getting to hack him to pieces.

Spellsword rushed over his aid as fast as he could, slicing off the head of the foremost goblin in one clean stroke. He leaped backward with graceful, catlike nimbleness, evading the retaliative swing of a pickaxe as the diminished horde focused on him, displeased with his interference. The half-demon, unwilling to expend much more effort on prolonging the skirmish, jumped back into the fray. He targeted their vital spots, whether it be between the eyes or across the jugular, usually before they had the chance to fully recover from their missed attacks.

Once the last of the goblins collapsed and expelled its last breath through a crushed neck, the swordsman sprinted over to the Guard, dropping his weapon by his side. He knelt and leaned forward, placing one finger near the man's nostrils.

A weak flow of air brushed against it.

"Come on, talk to me." Spellsword pleaded, lifting him up to support him with the utmost care. "Do you need a potion?"

The Guard slowly blinked twice. He groaned, head straining forward, as though he was attempting to take a closer look before making a decision. A long, labored sigh came forth from his lips.

"Hang on." the half-demon dragged the Guard to one of the wagon's wheels and placed him against it. "I'll return shortly."

He ran as fast as he could to the side of the nearest cart, the location where he and Rogue had deposited their backpacks before entering combat a while ago. Unfastening the straps on his large one, Spellsword rummaged through the contents, praying quietly to the Gods to delay the man's demise for just a little longer. He procured two bottles, one healing potion, the other antidote, along with a roll of bandage and a small container filled with medicinal salve. Holding the items as a secure bundle with both arms, Spellsword hurried back.

He stopped halfway to his destination. Goblin Rogue, fully dressed and splattered with blood, stood across from the Guard who had slid off from the wheel. The man lied motionless, quiet as the dead.

Spellsword's mouth opened partially, presumably with the intention to speak. He decided against it, however, with a shake of his head. The swordsman sprinted, dropped what he had gathered, then crouched down to put a finger on the side of the human's neck. A pulse failed to present itself, even after a brief moment of waiting.

"What happened here?" Spellsword asked, his tone coming off as more bluntly than he intended.

"Don't look at me like that, alright?" Rogue brought up his hands in a defensive posture. "The guy croaked before I could even talk to him."

Spellsword clicked his tongue, paying minimal attention to the goblin's claim. He moved his index finger to one of the closed eyes and pulled apart the eyelids, together with his thumb. Instead of being greeted with a lively, vibrant green iris, a blank white mass, speckled with tiny red veins, met his gaze.

"I'm sorry." the swordsman apologized, shutting the deceased Guard's eye respectfully. "If only I had gotten to you sooner…"

"No use moping about it now." Goblin Rogue said, his tone cold and distant. "Let's go see if there's anything worth grabbing from the wagons before getting the hell out of here."

"There's more than enough supplies for us reach the next settlement." Spellsword stood, staring sternly. "We're *not* going to be bandits."

"Are you kidding me?" Rogue threw both hands into the air. "You, and I, nearly just died and now you're trying to lecture me that looting is wrong?"

"Yes."

The thief facepalmed, groaning exasperatedly.

"Look, I didn't come all the way out here to die because I took chances. It's not like anybody here is going to miss them anyway."

"I understand your concern, but that is no excuse to do as you please." Spellsword's forked tail lashed about behind him, in a manner not unlike an agitated viper. "Somebody is bound to notice the missing goods and they will be onto us!"

"You're the one who doesn't understand!" the goblin shouted, chest puffing up and down with burning frustration. "So you better stop preaching and shut up!"

"Oi! What's be goin' on...here?"

Spellsword and Rogue's heads snapped to the side to where the booming, masculine voice originated from. A powerfully-built yet rotund man sat atop a wooden wagon, holding a duo of horses with his leather reins. The color drained quickly from his face as he stared at the two with his widened dark silver eyes.

"Oh Gods…"

Before either of them could react or speak, he slapped the animals hastily with the reins in his hands. The equines reared up with shrilly neighs and sprinted onward, to the surprise of the two and the passengers sitting in the back of the wagon. Rogue leaped away just in time to avoid getting trampled.

"Great." Goblin Rogue spat at the grass. "Just the last fucking thing I need."

"We'd better not linger around here any longer." Spellsword said softly, leaning down to pick up the bottles, bandage and salve. "Let's take our things and move."

Though his temper was far from cooling off entirely, the thief found himself nodding, unanimously and quietly.


	5. A Fragile Haven

The ancient sun was still making its slow retreat behind the distant horizon by the time Goblin Rogue and Half-Demon Spellsword arrived at the entrance leading into a village, the closest one that they could reach on foot. Two men dressed in everyday clothes stood at each side. One was armed with a pitchfork, the other a large stick. Their erect postures and vigilant gazes were impressive, to say the least, even though they weren't likely to be disciplined soldiers.

Spellsword held out a hand to his small companion, bidding him to stay close to his flank as they approached them, their footwears grating softly against the dirt.

"That's close enough." one of the guards said. He had short salmon-red hair, broad shoulders, and a narrow, scrutinizing gaze which he cast through a pair of emerald eyes. "State your businesses."

"We're travelers," Spellsword replied softly. "All we're looking for is a warm place to stay for the night."

"Really?"

The guard walked around them at a cautious pace, looking up and down in search of hidden suspicious elements. Although their clothes have been scrubbed relatively clean of blood and dirt, Rogue's hand couldn't help but twitch almost imperceptibly, his instinct imploring him to reach for his dagger, to put an end to the agonizing silence. He felt, or perhaps imagined, a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead as he suppressed the thought, and along with it the intent. The last thing he wanted after what had transpired at dawn was unwanted attention.

"Alright.," the man stopped in front of them. He didn't, however, appeared to be satisfied. "But we can't just allow anybody in, especially people who don't show their faces."

"Listen, bud, my uh, partner and I are in a hurry right now." Rogue excused. "Mind if you could make an exception?"

"I'm afraid we can't do that." the other guard spoke. "It'd be our jobs on the line if we don't obey the rules."

"What he said." the red-haired guard added, tightening his clutch on the club. "Don't make this harder than it already is."

"Alright, I have a little deal for you," Rogue proposed, flashing the two men a hefty purse he had unfastened from his belt. The content inside jingled merrily as he held it aloft, making their eyes sparkle with intrigue. "I'll give you two a present if you can look away just for a little bit."

"Hmmm, I don't know…" the guard, after making sure nobody else was nearby, squatted down in front of him. Rogue, his gaze stoic, stood his ground. "How much will you give us exactly?"

"Does forty sound good?"

"Come on, you could be a bit more generous than that. Let's make it...eighty."

"No can do. Fifty."

"I'm not really sure about this." the second guard protested, checking his sides with a worried frown. "We'd be screwed if they catch us-"

"Don't worry about it. I'll make sure nobody finds out." the red-haired male interrupted him before turning his head to Rogue. "Seventy."

"Sixty, and that's final."

"Deal."

Smirking victoriously, Rogue poured out some coins into his palm and shoved them into the guard's hand. After a brief count, he stuffed the money, quickly and surreptitiously, into his sheepskin jacket.

"Great." he went back to his post by the stone wall, patting down his clothes along the way. "You may proceed."

"Do you know where we can find the nearest inn?" Spellsword asked.

"Sure, just continue on, turn right and then look to your left." the man replied, pointing a finger in the appropriate direction. "You can't miss it."

"Thanks." Rogue nodded with calculated appreciation. While he was passing through the arch with the swordsman by his side, the thief noticed that at the corner of his eye, the guard gave him a wink that subtly said No, thank you.

The village wasn't empty, but it was far from bustling with activities either. That being said, it didn't mean that their walk was a peaceful one. As soon as they caught sight of two cloaked strangers marching in their direction, the children hollered, ending their games prematurely before scarpering towards different destinations. Their parents, as well as other adults, promptly followed their examples. They either hastened their steps or slammed the doors and windows to their homes shut, peeking fearfully and furtively at them through the cracks.

For an elusive burglar and assassin such as Rogue, none of this felt right for him. He was supposed to be prowling the streets after the sun had long gone down and after almost everyone has listened to the silent, mesmerizing lullaby of sleep. He wouldn't have to think about the countless faces of the people that were watching him, regarding him as nothing more but a vermin to be exterminated without remorse. Spellsword didn't seem to appear troubled, but a cursory glance at his tail, which moved about tensely, told a different story.

"Do you still have enough to for lodging tonight?" the swordsman asked, hoping it'd take their minds off the uneasiness.

"'Course I do. I like to save as many coins as I can in case something like that happens." Rogue replied, looking at him quizzically. "Did you think I spent them all on booze or something?"

"No, not really." Spellsword gently scratched the side of his bearded face. "But it's nice to know you're frugal with your money."

Rogue's eyes tripled in size. His large ears flickered, making their outlines on his hood shifted lightly. He bit his lip, rubbed at the back of his neck, and looked down at the dusty road, feeling somewhat vulnerable at his loss for words.

"Wouldn't have gotten far without it," he replied after a brief moment of delay, shrugging his shoulders.

As they prepared to turn to the right as per the guard's instruction, a burly human male with rumpled clothes and a bushy salt-and-pepper beard stumbled into view from around the corner. Unable to anticipate each other's presence in time, Spellsword bumped into him, causing the latter to fall on his rear with a pained grunt.

"My apologies." the half-demon leaned forward, extending a hand. "Are you alright?"

"Go away!" the stranger shrieked and backpedaled, his face as white as snow. "Don't come any closer!"

"I'm not going to hurt you, I-"

Before Spellsword could finish his reassurance, he was met with a faceful of soil as the villager unexpectedly thrust his foot at him. He staggered a few steps backward, hissing as he clutched his face. The swordsman and his companion weren't able to do anything else but watch as the stranger picked up his dropped burlap sack and fled in the opposite direction, panting hysterically for air.

"Something tells me we better not be out here after dark," Rogue said.

"Agreed." Spellsword nodded gently, rubbing at his jaw.

They pressed on until they spotted a two-story building, wrought of wood and roofed with straw just like any other. A large sign depicting a frothing wooden tankard of beer hung above the door.

It was the place.

* * *

The echoing chorus of raucous laughter they have heard from the outside died down by a noticeable degree as soon as they set foot inside the establishment. Men and women from all walks of life quickly ceased whatever they were doing - be it conversing, dining or gaming - to train their eyes on the newly-arrived guests, studying them quietly and apprehensively. A few of them whispered among themselves, but Rogue and Spellsword paid no mind to their discussions as they walked up to the worn wooden counter situated at the center of the room, manned by a sand-haired woman in a rose-colored blouse.

"Good evening." she greeted, looking at Spellsword with a conservative smile. The half-demon didn't want to be certain whether he had imagined a twitch tugging at the corner of her lips. "How can I help you?"

"I'd like a room and a meal for two." Spellsword requested, in the kindest tone he could make. "Just for tonight, please."

"I beg your pardon?" she raised her thin brows. "I don't see anyone else besides you."

"Down here."

The sudden appearance of a second voice caused the Innkeeper to gasps softly. Placing her delicate hands against the counter, she carefully leaned over to investigate. She gasped once more as her leaf-green eyes met with Rogue's amber pair. In stunned silence, she swore to the Gods that they were the most beautiful things she had ever seen in her life. Somehow, and in some way, she could detect a sliver of genuine fear behind them.

"Um, ma'am?" Rogue asked.

"S-Sorry! I didn't mean to be impolite." the Innkeeper straightened her posture in an instant. She veiled her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and exhaled to compose herself. "Allow me to look at our ledger."

The Innkeeper took a worn, dusty leather-bound tome lying nearby and set it down in front of her. As she was pulling the cover to the side, she moistened one of her fingers with a small dab of saliva before leafing through the pages, pausing occasionally to scan the contents with care. After a while, the woman looked up at them with another neutral smile.

"There is a room I can provide to both of you for the night," she stated.

"How much is it?" Spellsword inquired.

She gave them the price without hesitation. They flinched lightly upon hearing it. It was as if they were purchasing a house in a middle-class district.

"You couldn't be serious." Rogue gently protested.

"I'm afraid she is."

Rogue and Spellsword looked to the left. A man, slightly taller than the Innkeeper by a fair margin, strode towards them. He was garbed in a yellowed white shirt, brown trousers, and a stained canvas apron with a rag stuffed in one of the pockets. Nudging her to the side with a considerate push, he turned his head towards the two unusual guests, regarding them with an unfriendly, steely gaze.

"Sir," Spellsword said. "Is there a reason we have to pay such a large amount?"

The human sighed.

"If you haven't noticed already, you and your friend aren't exactly welcomed around here," he replied. "We have heard about what happened from the carriage driver who checked in just this afternoon."

"What did you hear?"

"Of how you mercilessly slew an entire trading caravan along with its brave defenders," the man leaned closer, lowering his voice into a harsh whisper while jabbing at his chest. "The worst part is that you've also led a band of goblins to do it, even if all but one of them died in the process."

"But that isn't true! I'm perfectly willing to explain-"

"You can talk as much as you want, demon, and we still won't believe a single one of your lies. I don't know what is it that you're planning, but you are lucky we didn't stick you like a pig."

"Why is that?"

"None of your business." the man rested his hands on the counter. "Now, are you going to pay up or not?"

Spellsword turned to look at Rogue, who couldn't offer him anything more than a shrug accompanied by a powerless look. The Innkeeper's presumed husband continued to remain in the same posture as before, only at this time did he decided to drum his fingers intently while giving the swordsman an impatient glare. It was clear that haggling with either of the proprietors would only worsen the already unfavorable situation.

"Very well."

The half-demon grabbed his purse and placed it on the table. Rogue stood on the tips of his toes and followed his example, adding in a couple more coins so they could share the cost. The man picked up one of them, placing it between his teeth before biting down with a fair amount of force. The bit of metal didn't break off.

"Hmmph." he put it back where it was and slid a menu towards them. The names of several appetizing dishes seduced their growling stomachs as soon as they were in sight, but the recent payment they made had greatly limited their options.

"I'd like to have two porridges, two loaves of bread and some water, please," Spellsword ordered, still maintaining the polite tone as he did before.

"'Right, now bugger off." the man shoveled the coins into a drawer he had removed from behind the counter. "And keep that little devil of yours away from our women too."

A sharp, tense breath slipped in between Rogue's grounded teeth. He glanced around him. The male patrons were quick to act on the Innkeeper's presumed husband's warning. They took their women - be they wives, sisters or cousins - and departed for elsewhere, whether it be as simple as other parts of the establishment or as drastic as leaving the building. A couple of them made scissoring motion with their fingers as they glared at him, and he had no reason to doubt they weren't threats. He couldn't blame them. They had every right to be furious and fearful of the goblins, the takers of lives and defilers of wombs. Why bother wasting his breath absolving himself to those with deep-rooted suspicions?

The thought continued to linger in his mind long after Spellsword led, or rather, escorted him to a table lying in the corner. They sat in the same way at the campsite they'd rested at last night, facing one another. Heaving a heavy sigh, Rogue took out the dented flask from his backpack, loosened the lid, and gulped down some liquor from it. The container was now a little lighter than he'd have wanted. The goblin grunted in dismay.

"There are other ways to deal with the problem instead of trying to drink it away," Spellsword stated.

"Does it matter?" Rogue scoffed. "It beats the hell out of having nothing else to think about."

"Is that it?" the swordsman rested his arms on the table's surface. "You deal with your woes by pretending they were never there?"

"Maybe?" Rogue shrugged, looking away evasively for a split second. "What can you do when people start shitting on you for being something they hate?"

"Well, are you willing to hear me speak from experience?" Spellsword asked.

"..Sure."

As he was about to begin, a waitress made her appearance with a wooden tray that carried their order. Instead of placing them on the table one-by-one as expected, she held the tray towards the swordsman while keeping her distance from Rogue. After a brief awkward pause, Spellsword decided to take everything and laid them down him himself, passing to his companion his bowl, spoon, and cup as well. Relieved, the waitress bowed stiffly and left without a word.

Lifting a spoonful of tonight's humble meal to his nose, Rogue cautiously sniffed it twice. He discovered nothing except the element of blandness. No herbs were added to the porridge, he was certain, but the thief wasn't ignorant to the possible existence of poison. The worst kind would be the one that could elude detection from a non-human's enhanced senses.

Spellsword spoke nothing regarding Rogue's reluctant approach. Instead, he noisily sipped from his spoon a small portion. The goblin, with widened eyes, dropped his own into the bowl without delay.

"What the hell are you doing?" he chastised. "You trying to get yourself killed?"

"It's not poisoned," Spellsword calmly spoke, sidestepping the question.

"How'd you know?" Rogue eyed him skeptically. "What about the bread and the water?"

The half-demon placed his crossed arms on the table and closed his eyes, lips twisting into a half-smirk. He was well aware it was not the time to derive amusement from what the other saw as a life-or-death situation.

"Am I your personal food taster now?" he inquired.

"Just tell me if they are spiked or not," Rogue demanded, impatience evident in his voice.

"Fine."

Spellsword took a crunchy bite from the freshly-baked bread and drew from his cup some water as requested. He remains seated on the bench, even after a moment they both considered to be sufficiently long had passed, with no visible signs of illness. The more Rogue thought about it, the chance of someone slipping poison with delayed effects into their meal was gradually becoming just as likely as finding a needle in a haystack.

Maybe his paranoia had gotten the better of him after all.

"Do you intend on sleeping with an empty stomach now?" the swordsman asked with a hint of playfulness.

"Uh, no thanks," Rogue snatched up his own loaf and ripped off one large chunk with his teeth, indifferent to the crumbs that were falling down to his feet. "Ras you wvere sayirng?"

"Right." Spellsword took a slightly larger sip of porridge. "For starters, you're going to need to have patience. A lot of it."

"Uh-huh." the goblin slowly nodded twice.

"Some people will take a liking to you the moment you prove you're trustworthy, but others will need some time to make sure that their trusts aren't misplaced." he elaborated. "Secondly, you keep in mind that you're free to be yourself."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that you live by your own rules and be accepting of your shortcomings. You shouldn't have to blame yourself for things you have no control over, such as who you are or what people might say."

Rogue glanced aside briefly, gulping some water. "I...probably could get behind that."

Spellsword nodded understandingly.

"And last but not least, you cooperate with other people, not just the ones that have something you want."

"Are you sure about that last part?"

"I'm speaking from experience, am I not?"

"I don't know," Rogue looked down, brushing bread crumbs off his hands as well as his pants. "That is a pretty good way to end up dead in my line of work."

"Have you ever thought about quitting to try something else?"

"Maybe once or twice." the goblin sighed. "Too bad I'll end up starving if I did, and the last thing I want to do is to waltz into an Adventurer's Guild building and say 'Hey, sign me up because I'm totally not a goblin'."

"What if you join up with me?" Spellsword suggested, placing his spoon into the nearly empty bowl. "We could do honest work together."

"Did you already forget what I just said last night?" Rogue hurled at him a critical glare. "I don't do group."

"But think about it," the swordsman leaned forward. "Are stealing and killing for scums with deep pockets all that you're good for? Remember what could've happened if I wasn't there to save you?"

"Don't try to play your tricks on me." the thief hissed through gritted teeth. As he looked closely, Spellsword could see that his eyes - mesmerizing and uncanny - were beginning to moisten. "I know the risks when I took those jobs. All I had to do next was to be more careful next time, that's all."

"With no one to protect you? No one whom you can confide your troubles in? Are you this content with living a life in the shadows until you die a lonely death?"

"I don't have a choice, alright?" two beads of tear began streaking down green cheeks. "If that was the case, then so be it. Better that than to get a fucking knife in the back from a so-called friend."

Spellsword didn't answer immediately. He stared at Rogue for a while in contemplative silence. The goblin mimicked his action in response, sniffing as he wiped his cheek with the back of his hand.

_He had a point_, Spellsword thought, _as much as I disagree with his insistence on being alone._

"Are you two freaks done with your shouting match already?" a male patron asked in the distance. "'Cause I'm dying to see what happens next!"

The tavern promptly clamored with a chaotic cacophony of jeering laughter and similar words of "encouragement". Rogue glowered at the demonic swordsman sitting across him, but he didn't say anything. He simply hopped down from the bench, snatched up his backpack, and pulled up his scarf before heading towards the staircase that leads to the second floor. Loosening a quiet, defeated sigh, Spellsword decided to take his leave as well, warding off potential harassment attempts along the way with a silent scowl. Well-aware of what he would be capable of if provoked, the patrons wisely stayed to the side.

* * *

"I want to let you know that I-"

"Leave me alone." Rogue cut Spellsword short, not bothering with facing him as he walked up the stairs. "I'm not in the mood to get lectured about how I should work."

"This isn't about it."

"Just shut up for now, okay?" the goblin turned his head slightly, just enough to look at him at the corner of his eye. "I have a headache that I want to sleep off as soon as I-"

Rogue suddenly paused in his tracks, his eyes widening until they were almost as large as dinner plates. He lets out a tiny gasp and balled his hands into tight fists as a discomforting chill ran down his spine. It didn't take long before Spellsword discovered the cause of the disturbance, and for him to react in a somewhat similar fashion.

The carriage driver, the very same stoutly-built man that saw and fled from them at dawn, stared at the duo in shocked silence. He was sitting at the center of a small round table flanked by two other men. His hands, which clutched a couple of playing cards, trembled uncontrollably with dread.

"Fuck." Rogue cursed.

He dropped the cards and shot up from his chair as though he was a loosened arrow. Letting out a breathless, terrified yelp, he tried to flee only to trip and fall to the floor with a resounding thud. The driver, undeterred by the pain flaring at his front and palms, hissed as he pushed himself back onto his feet. Driven by desperation, he picked up the fallen chair next to him and brandished it awkwardly. The two frowning men on his sides held the more proper but smaller weapons in the form of daggers.

Those transparent signs of danger were all the reason Rogue needed to prepare for a fight. Blood would've been spilled had Spellsword not been nearby to gently dissuades him with a shake of his head.

"Git away from me, foul fiends!" he barked. "I be screamin' my lungs off if I had to!"

"Easy, sir. We're not looking to threaten or harm you in any way," Spellsword said. "All we're simply asking is that you give us a chance to talk."

"Talk?!" the Driver bellowed in disbelief. "After all the slaughterin' you committed? Did you reckon we're that dumb?"

"Please. It isn't what you think it is." Spellsword maintained. "Are you not going to listen to someone who knew exactly what had happened?"

"And why should we trust you?" one of the other men chimed in. "How do we know you won't sick that little devil of yours on our women?"

"Because I prefer treating the ladies with the respect they deserve," Rogue replied, causing their eyes to widen. "You gonna keep auditioning for a play or what?"

The three humans eyed them distrustfully before turning to each other with doubtful expressions. They began whispering to one another, taking turns in no particular order as they busily discussed, or rather, argued about their next decision. While the trio was still on their way to reaching an agreement, the Innkeeper's presumed husband made his appearance with an intimidatingly large club in hand.

"Sir, are you alright?" he asked the Carriage Driver. "Did these two monsters just threatened you?"

"Oh no no no," Driver smiled reassuringly with a dash of nervousness, setting down his improvised weapon. "There be a little misunderstandin'."

"Are you sure? Should I show them out? Maybe call in some adventurers?"

"That needn't be necessary, thank you."

"Fine, but don't be afraid to shout if they try anything, alright?"

"I will." Driver nodded, and the man with the club began a slow retreat down the stairs.

"I'm glad you were able to see reason." Spellsword smiled.

"Don't be relieved just yet." the rotund man sat down. "Before we talk, I'm gonna hav' to ask that you giv' up your weapons first."

"No. No fucking thanks," Rogue started walking away, hands raised defensively. "I'll be going to my room and get my beauty-"

"Don't think you be off the hook, goblin." the Driver halted him with a threatening glare. "Do it 'fore I start hollerin'."

Rogue growled gutturally. "Fine."

With practiced movements, he swiftly unfastened the sheath, bandolier, and pouch before passing them to one of the men who didn't hesitate to examine them right away with great interest. The same applies to the other one who held Spellsword's namesake weapon, whispering to himself about how he had never seen anything with such a distinctive, elegant yet practical design before. The hilt was wrapped in braided strips of crimson leather, while the pommel and crossguard, both wrought from the finest steel, remained as remarkable as ever despite repeated uses.

"Don't be such a worrywart." the man said upon noticing Rogue, who stared at him uncomfortably. "I'm not gonna break a single thing, I promise."

"May I join in as well?"

The group collectively turned their heads to the direction of a young masculine voice, tinged with a soft, pleasant accent. It belonged to a human male of comparatively short height who appeared to be on the cusp of young adulthood. His head was topped with short, slightly unkempt hair bearing the hue of almond. The shade of his two large, lively eyes was strikingly mismatched, the left being a mesmerizing blue of a sapphire, while the right was as brown as the earth. His attire certainly wasn't something ordinary folks would be found wearing. It consisted of a long navy blue coat worn over a white shirt, dark green breeches, brown gloves, and a pair of mud-kissed black high leather boots.

"Any reasons why this should concern you?" Driver asked.

"Why I'm but a humble scholar, of course." the young man, now known as Scholar, replied confidently. "It's my life mission to shed the light of knowledge upon the mysteries of this world."

"And how are you going to do that?" Rogue questioned with folded arms. "Tie me down and cut me open?"

"Um no. Not really." Scholar rubbed the back of his head in a flustered manner. "I was planning to take notes of this conversation actually, for research purposes."

"I meant no offenses," Spellsword stated. "But aren't you worried that telling others about this will make you seem...untrustworthy?"

"Frankly, yes." Scholar nodded reservedly. "But it's better to take a step forward than to remain rooted in ignorance, is it not?"

"Enough with the chit-chat." Driver grumbled impatiently. "If you're gonna be part of 'is, you're gonna hav' to giv' up whatever you use as a weapon."

The young man's eyes enlarged with surprise. "But why?"

"Me mum said you can never be too careful," he explained. "It's a matter of bein' safe than sorry."

"Alright."

The Scholar looked down and reached inside his coat, taking a short moment to procure a long, slender, and mildly crooked object. It was undeniably a wizard's wand, with a handle covered with a strip of black cloth and a tapered head. The color of the wood it was hewn from was a pale shade of brown. He passed it to the man holding the sword, took a chair that has been stashed away in the corner and sat down, book and charcoal at the ready.

Spellsword and Rogue did the same.

"'Right," Driver took a sip of beer from a metal mug next to him. "If it ain't the two of you who offed the caravan, then who did?"

"It was a group of bandits," Spellsword answered. Scribbling noises quickly rushed in to break the silence. "I have no doubts they were going after the goods."

"So the bodies I saw...was that 'em?"

"Not all of them," the half-demon corrected. "A group, including the leader, took whatever they could and fled when a goblin shaman and a hobgoblin appeared and reduced their number."

"Must've come for food and the lasses, 'aven't they?"

Spellsword nodded.

"But something ain't adding up here," Driver said. "If your uh, friend, was one 'imself, couldn't he just tell 'em off or somethin'?"

"I wish," Rogue scoffed, crossing his arms as he rolled his eyes. "They didn't give me as much as a chance before they started beating the living shit out of me. And while this guy here was trying not to get his head split open by the hob..."

He cocked his head in Spellsword's direction.

"...the shaman just...manhandled me."

"I'm sorry about that," Spellsword spoke. Rogue pretended not to have heard him.

"Must've been terrible," Driver nodded with reserved sympathy. "What happened after that?"

"One of the caravan guards saved me before the hobgoblin tore my jaw off, and he did the same for my friend when the shaman was about to kill him," Spellsword said, then he cast his gaze downward. "He then distracted half of the horde long enough for us to dispose of them, but we couldn't get to him in time."

"Did you at least giv' 'im a proper burial?"

"He insisted, and not just the poor guy either," Rogue replied. "Good thing there were shovels in one of the carts."

"Would you have eaten him otherwise, then?" Scholar asked. The goblin whipped his head to the side with a furious glare, causing him to recoil with dread.

"What kind of fucking monster do you take me for, huh?" he snapped. "I'd rather starve to death before I even think about chewing on someone's arm, y-you know-nothing son of a-"

He wasn't able to finish his curse before Spellsword stopped him with a tap on his shoulder.

"Let him go," the swordsman urged. "He didn't mean to spite you by asking that question."

"Y-Yes, I'm very sorry," Scholar added. "That was quite inconsiderate of me."

Rogue responded with nothing but a grunt of begrudging acknowledgment.

"Anyway," Driver said, redirecting their focus. "How did you know the caravan was bein' attacked?"

"One of its members came to our camp while we were having breakfast," Spellsword replied. "He warned us to stay away before dying from his wounds."

"'Right, I reckon I get what happened now." he pinched the bridge of his nose. "And based on what you said...you two seemed like decent folks."

He paused and touched the back of his head in shame.

"S'rry about the troubles I've given you."

"It's alright," Spellsword smiled. "You're doing the right thing by facing your mistakes."

"Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?"

"You could stop spewing bullshit about us for a start," Rogue suggested.

"Perhaps they could ride along with us to our next destination," Scholar added, earning himself doubtful glances from everyone else. "I mean, it's better than trying to get there on foot alone, does it not?"

"Do you need us to pay for your service?" Spellsword asked. "I promise we won't give you too much trouble."

"You can keep your coins to yourself just this once," Driver replied. "We'll set off early in the morning, so don't be late."

"Understood."

Rogue sighed with relief. "Finally."

He leaped off the chair and walked towards the man holding his gears, who promptly returned them without delay. Wrapping his arms around the loose bundle, the goblin headed to his and Spellsword's room with impatient strides and pushed the door open with one foot. His companion caught up with him shortly after retrieving his sword.

With no further reason to linger around any longer, the humans too decided to retire for the night.

Tomorrow would be a new day, full of challenges and opportunities.


End file.
